Psychic Surveys Companion Novels

by Shani Struthers

  That thought was reinforced by something more she had said – the light hurts.

  How could something as wonderful as the light hurt?

  I was about to run down to my room, throw my belongings into the suitcase and go and meet Father, but I suddenly could not bring myself to do it. Not until there was light. Not daylight, not electrical light, but the only light there was at my disposal – gaslight. Seized with the desire to illuminate this dark, dark house, I rushed to the table with the candle, beside which would be kept a box of matches and wax tapers. I grabbed them, dragging the match head along the striking surface and watched as it burst into flame. There was nothing threatening about it this time; instead it was something beautiful; something valiant – the strongest element of all, that is what I had thought just an hour or two earlier; to be used for good, only for good; in this case for the purpose of cleansing. I then lit the taper and, making my way to the centre of the room, inserted it through the hole in the bottom of the globe in the ceiling gaslight. Tilting the chain, there was a popping sound as the gas ignited.

  Watching it, I heard a roar in my head; a desperate protest.

  Immediately I turned back towards the bed. “The light will not hurt you. Not anymore. There is no need to be afraid.”

  I took the matches and tapers with me as I left the room. The figure in the bed had, miraculously, quietened at my words; had, I think, listened.

  In the hallway, I lit yet more lamps before rushing back down the stairs to my room, aware that I had to act quickly; that Father was waiting. All the while I addressed the shadows.

  “You must not be afraid. Please. You need the light. The light will help.”

  Who was I reassuring? I wondered. Them or simply myself? I had no time to contemplate; the words felt right, that was all that mattered. I had to get to my room… via the one in which Helena was felled.

  That room needed the light most of all.

  My breathing was a harsh sound in my ears as I moved towards it. What would I encounter in there? Not just shadows but something more substantial; perhaps Constance herself, just as I had seen her in the corridor – her eyes, oh her eyes! Or it might be Helena again, not in bed this time, but standing with her head lolling.

  Hold fast. Do not allow your imagination to take over.

  Because some of it was imagination, I was sure of it.

  Maybe all of it?

  I shook my head. No. Not all. Do what you came here to do and light the lamp.

  My hands shaking violently now, I moved to the exact spot where Father had slain Helena, and, as I did, a terrible coldness seized me; it was worse than any winter chill; akin to the cold I had felt in the woods of Mears House that day, when I had fallen and Josie had appeared to take care of me.

  What Father and Arthur had done with the body I had no idea, or how long the interval had been between the time I had blacked out and when I had been taken to that room where the society had gathered. However long it was, it was time enough for them to remove it. But what had they done with Helena? Was she lying in a ditch somewhere? Or at the bottom of that great river that snaked its way through London – the Thames, no doubt the resting place of many a wronged soul?

  I corrected myself; even if her body lay there, it did not imply her soul did.

  Light the lamp, Rosamund.

  I did, leaving it to blaze behind me as I left the scene of the murder and entered my own room, where I lit another, this time for more practical reasons, so that I could see to pack. As I did, as the shadows became less and less, I noticed something: something glittering.

  It was my necklace! Lying there on the floor in front of me!

  Squatting, I snatched it up – terrified it might disappear if I did not act with haste.

  I was certain it had not lain there before. I would have sworn to it. It was in so blatant, so obvious a position, that it would have been impossible to miss.

  The sound of laughter caused me to gasp – tinkling laughter.

  “Constance?” I whispered, my head whipping from left to right. “Was it you? Did you keep it safe for me?”

  And return it from the dead, my necklace and my protection.

  “Rosamund! Where are you? Hurry! Our coach is waiting.”

  On hearing Father rather than Constance, I straightened up and did as before; placed the necklace in my purse. One day, though – and I promised myself this – I would wear it for all to see – my mother’s necklace, and her gift to me.

  “Rosamund!”

  “I am coming, Father.”

  Throwing whatever I could into my suitcase, I forced it shut and retraced my footsteps. At the top of the stairs I came to a halt, turning to look behind me.

  I saw nothing but light.

  “Be at peace, Helena,” I whispered. “And, Constance, my dear friend, rest well.”

  * * *

  There is not much that I remember about the carriage ride home. Father sat opposite me, his breathing heavy as he sipped, sipped, sipped from a flask – the smell not as pungent as laudanum perhaps, but it was as sickly, and to combat it, I did my utmost to breathe only shallowly. Clutched in his hands was a carpetbag, what it contained the reason we had gone back to the house to fetch, no doubt. I glanced at him only briefly, trying to come to terms with what I now knew him to be – a murderer. Not only was I at his mercy, I was his descendant. His blood was my blood. If there was darkness in him would it follow that darkness existed in me too?

  As we continued to travel over rough roads for what would be hours and hours, I had to remind myself that I was also a part of Mother. And although I had no living memory of her, because of the necklace I felt her presence near and she was good – wholly good. There was so much good in this world… and so much bad. And perhaps, just perhaps, there was a world within us all.

  The dawn was breaking as at last we entered the grounds of Mears House. Father was sleeping, albeit fitfully, his body twitching occasionally, causing him to groan.

  As the house came into view, I could not resist leaning forward. There it stood, the house in which I had been raised; the mausoleum, with nothing festive to brighten it, not even at Christmas. Inside were Miss Tiggs and Josie. Would they be surprised at our return, or were they expecting us? I would soon find out.

  The driver brought the carriage to a halt, another jolt that this time succeeded in awakening Father.

  “What is it? Have we arrived? Are we here?”

  Rather than answer, I opened the carriage door, the driver helping me to step down. As Father alighted he missed a step and the driver hastened to help him too. Rather than accept, Father brushed his hands away, determined to right himself by his own efforts. Throughout he kept a tight hold on the carpetbag. What is it you have in there? Again I could not help but wonder.

  Whilst he paid the driver, I turned to the house and once more took it all in; how many windows it had; how many eyes. Above it were only clouds and sky, the early morning colours not glorious but leaden. There were no birds, I noticed. There very seldom were. But not everything stayed away, not by far.

  As the driver departed, and Father began to approach the house, I knew I had gained some sort of reprieve. He would need to sleep properly, not the fitful kind you snatched whilst journeying, but deep sleep, the kind that rejuvenated you. Whatever he planned now, he would want to do it properly, not on the back of exhaustion.

  As we entered, Miss Tiggs was in her usual position on the inside of the door, although there was no sign of Josie. I hurried towards the staircase and began to climb, making my way not to the attic, but to my room, there to dig the necklace from my purse and hug it to me as I lay on the bed and prayed for sleep to find me too.

  For in the coming hours, I would need all the strength I possessed.

  Rosamund Chapter Fifteen

  “Rosamund, darling.”

  Darling? Who was calling me that? I cannot recall any person having used that term of endearment towards me, perhaps not even Const
ance.

  “That’s it, easy now,” the voice continued. “It’s me, Josie.”

  Josie? Had she dispensed with ‘miss’ completely?

  It had been during the morning that I had fallen asleep, and I was so tired that I had foregone the drawing of the curtains. In spite of that, no daylight pervaded, instead the room had about it a hazy quality.

  As I sat up I rubbed at my eyes. After a moment, panic set in.

  “Don’t worry about your necklace,” Josie said, the smile upon her face soft rather than dazzling. “It’s quite safe.”

  “How did you know…?” I began, but my voice soon trailed off.

  Josie was sitting close to me, still with her red hair captured beneath her cap, but for those rogue wisps that tended to frame her face – heart-shaped I noticed it was, although for some reason that fact had evaded me until now. She was still pale; still with those glassy green eyes – the shine far more natural than that which had been in Constance’s eyes. It seemed to reflect a quality from deep within and I found myself envying it. She appeared just as she always had, but there was also something new and different about her; something I could not quite identify.

  “The stones in your necklace,” she said, “do you know what they are?”

  I shook my head. I had been meaning to ask Constance but had now missed the opportunity.

  “Tourmaline. And Harry was right when he said what he did; they’ll protect you. They will lend courage when you need it most.”

  “Josie,” this time I refused to allow my voice to fail me. “How could you possibly know about the stones?”

  She laughed. “Perhaps there’s more to me than meets the eye.”

  I pondered on this before continuing. “And how do you know about Harry?”

  “Because we are connected, Rosamund. All of us. That’s how.”

  Instead of pondering further, it struck me quite suddenly what was different about Josie. Not only was she employing terms of endearment, her entire demeanour had changed. Gone was the simple country girl who would spend her life curtseying to others; she now had, if anything, an air of superiority about her. I leant forward but did not dare to touch her, my suspicion preventing me from doing so. “Who are you?” I whispered, not just experiencing bewilderment but many other emotions besides.

  A bang at the door followed by the turn of the handle, caused us both to stare at it, instead of at each other.

  Beads of sweat broke out on my forehead. “Is that Father?”

  “No,” Josie replied, her gaze still on the door. “But it will be soon.”

  “Who is it, then?” I asked, puzzled.

  She turned back to me, taking my hand in hers and gripping it tight. “What you did at the townhouse, it was the right thing to do. You knew that, in spite of what Mrs Lawton had said. No one had to tell you. You drew upon instinct.”

  Was she referring to the gas lamps and the urge that overcame me to light them? But once again, how could she know this? “Is this another dream?”

  She inclined her head a little. “It is perhaps a half dream.”

  I could not help but become a little angry at the vagueness of her replies, and as I did, the rattling at the door increased.

  Rather than be alarmed by it, she smiled again. “See the power you have, Rosamund; natural power. Use it wisely.”

  I could not continue to sit. I snatched my hand from hers, leapt to my feet and began to pace as Father would pace. When I abruptly realised my actions were his, I came to a halt and turned to her, tears beginning to fall. I lifted my hand to touch them and it came away wet. How could this be a dream when tears felt real enough?

  “I am afraid,” I admitted.

  “And where do you go when you’re afraid?”

  “The attic.”

  “The attic is safe?”

  “Yes, yes it is.”

  Josie stood too. “How do you know it’s safe?”

  “Because… because…”

  “Instinct tells you so?”

  “Yes.” It was another admission. “Instinct tells me so.”

  She reached out and once more held my hand. Her touch was gentle, extraordinarily so; a touch that only she was capable of.

  “Trust in your instinct. Always.”

  I hung my head and allowed more tears to come – a wave that threatened to become tidal. The rattling had ceased completely now; there was no more banging, only the sound of my sobbing. “Josie, Josie,” I wailed, as her arms encircled me, “I am so frightened. I am. What is he going to do with me?”

  “There, darling, there. Let the tears wash away your grief.”

  Grief? Yes, that was exactly the emotion that I was feeling. Grief at what I had lost, and what I had never had.

  A ray of light pierced the gloom. As I stood there with Josie’s arms around me, sobbing into her shoulder, it caused me to open my eyes; to marvel at how bright it was; how daring, to venture into a dream as bleak as this.

  Still I cried, continuing to relish the comfort of close contact. I cried for me, and I cried for Constance, I cried for Helena too, who had been weak and pitiful, but who had rallied at the end in defence of her daughter, and been killed as a consequence.

  By Father.

  “Oh, Josie,” I whimpered. Did I have the strength in me to face the man that had sired me? Should I simply run from this room, not to the attic, but towards the woods in an effort to escape? But there was something waiting in the woods, I had seen it. Something within the house also, rattling the door…

  There was no further comfort to be had and so I pushed Josie away.

  “No. I cannot do this. Something is happening here that I do not understand. I just… I want to be normal. I do not want this… any of it. Do you hear?”

  When Josie failed to reply, I turned from her and faced the wall; I brought my hands up to my head and tugged at my hair. This dream, this nightmare, it was not populated with twisted creatures and writhing limbs as it usually was; it was just Josie and I, and yet still it was terrifying. I opened my mouth to scream, and scream I did, albeit silently. It was a purge nonetheless – allowing what was in me; what had been contained for so long – at least a degree of freedom.

  Spent, I turned back to face this shimmering creature.

  “You are not real, are you?”

  Again she inclined her head. “I am real. But there’s only some who can see me.”

  “A ghost?” I whispered.

  “If you want to call me that. If it helps you to understand.”

  “I understand nothing!”

  Her smile grew wider. “You are such a plucky little thing,” she declared.

  Plucky?

  “I am weak,” I insisted.

  “You are strong, and you are strong because you are beginning to see.”

  What do you see?

  “Miss Tiggs…” I said at last.

  “Miss Tiggs died two years ago.”

  What? “But she has been here forever. I… I have seen her, talked with her, in the kitchen; sometimes at the front door, when she was bidding us, or rather Father, farewell.”

  “Has your father acknowledged her lately?”

  I thought about it and then shook my head. No, I believe he had not.

  “She never liked you, did she?” Josie said.

  “I never liked her!”

  “I don’t think anyone did much. She could be selfish.”

  Could? “But I have seen her!” I reiterated. “A few hours ago I saw her. And as little as a week or two ago, I was sitting in the kitchen conversing with her whilst I ate supper.”

  She was silent, forcing me to speak again. “I conversed with a ghost?”

  Slowly, she nodded.

  “Just as I am doing now?”

  There was another nod, and so I had to face the truth of the matter.

  “It is only Father and I in this house.” How solemn my voice was when I spoke these words. “And there has been for a long time. The governess…”


  “Your Father wouldn’t – couldn’t – pay the fees.”

  “He has other matters that require his finances, what little remains of them.”

  Josie was quiet, allowing me to come to terms with it all.

  It was just he and I in this big old crumbling house, set deep within the Sussex countryside, miles from anywhere, from anyone… except ghosts.

  “I see what I want to see,” I said.

  “You construct your world.”

  And I had; I had retained Miss Tiggs in my version of reality, pretending that she still served me my meals when it was I that had been doing so, month upon month. What a thought to ponder on; what a notion indeed.

  “But soon I will see things I do not want to see.”

  “That’s when you need to draw on instinct, Rosamund, and act upon it.”

  “Be plucky?”

  “That’s right. You are equipped to deal with this. And there is more armour coming, I promise.”

  “Armour? As if I were a soldier, going into war?”

  “There are always battles to be fought. This is just one of them.”

  Instead of questioning further, I yawned, and as I did, Josie and the room in front of me waivered, flickered from side to side, before becoming complete again.

  “I believe I am waking up,” I said.

  “You are.”

  “Will I ever see you again?” The thought that I would not was untenable. Josie was but two or three years older than myself; no more than a girl just as I was a girl, and yet she was a mother too, or at least all I imagined a mother to be.

  Perhaps sensing another swell of emotion within me, she stepped forward and put her hands upon my shoulders, fixing those tourmaline eyes upon me.

  “Not in this lifetime,” she replied and there was sorrow in her as well, so deep that I felt compelled to reach out and return at least a degree of comfort.

  “We will meet again, Josie, perhaps not here, but somewhere.” There was a pause before I added, “I know it to be true.”