Hidden Company

by S E England

  Every shelf is densely packed with regulation sheets, towelling and clothing. With the moon behind and the amber glow from a myriad of bonfires, a weak light is cast around the room. Frantically I run my fingers around the walls, stand on the shelves, throwing off the linen, scrambling upward… yes, here is a small vent in the ceiling. A trapdoor of sorts.

  One of Mary’s big ham fists smashes through one of the wooden panels.

  No time.

  A wooden rod they use to reach the top shelves is propped up in the corner of the room. Scrabbling back down, I grab it and climb back up monkey-quick. Jab at the trapdoor standing on my tiptoes. It shifts slightly. Jab it again harder, then again and again. Finally it dislodges.

  Mary’s shoulder is through the door.

  Christ help me! I am no match for her.

  I cannot pull up my own body weight. A pile of horsehair blankets lies next to me. Standing on those provides another precious few inches. Every bit of kicking fight goes into this…I am clinging on with my nails.

  And in.

  Slam the door shut and swing around.

  There’s little here to weight it down – a portmanteau, a small suitcase, several heavy tomes. They will hopefully suffice for the time being.

  What next? Where to? Think…think…

  It is a small room – some sort of cupboard - completely dark save for a sliver of moonlight glancing through a hole in the roof. A cold breeze whines through the rafters.

  There must be a door through to the attic rooms then, if this is a storage cupboard. If whoever resides in there is sleeping I could take what would be a softer fall onto one of the first floor bay windows, hopefully without them ever knowing. Maybe they keep the person sedated? But is it locked? And who lives in there? All is dark and quiet. I have an image of monsters leering lasciviously on the other side.

  From below, Mary has started to shout, “There’s no way out, Flora! You’d better get back down or you know what’ll happen. You don’t know what they do….”

  Her voice fades away.

  A key is slotting into the lock. A chink of candle light. And two small faces peer around the door.

  Faces such as I have never seen the like in all my days.

  ***

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  They cling to each other with tiny rodent hands. Identical in size, at a guess they stand at three, maybe four feet tall. But it is not their diminutive stature which shocks, rather the fact they appear to be very old - more than old- ancient. Both of these creatures have skins as wizened as walnut shells and are completely bald…as hairless as skinned rabbits.

  Through huge pale eyes they stare at where I sit cowering on the floor, initial fear quickly giving way to fascination. The one with the lantern now takes a step forward, revealing herself to be a tiny lady wearing a long dress of crinoline, complete with miniature bustle at the back and fussy ruffles at the neck. Fingering a locket with one hand, holding the lamp with the other, she creeps closer, those enormous, protruding eyes growing ever wider.

  Perhaps sensing my nerves, she stops a couple of feet away and stoops so that her face is level with mine. Concern crosses the startling little face. It’s quite as if she is a miniature person but without hair. The skin is stretched to a sheen over doll like bones, the bridge of the nose arête thin and beaked at the tip, chin almost non-existent. And when she opens her tiny mouth the teeth are sparse and pointed. Again she fingers the locket.

  Oh, the poor dear thing. I see now the skin is pulled tight to such a degree it is cracked and sore.

  “Hello!”

  “Are you English? Do you live here? I…please would you help me…?”

  Suddenly she brings up her hand and, flinching to protect my head from what is coming, I feel only the stroke of tiny fingers on my cheek. “Ah,” says a childlike voice. “Soft.”

  The other one comes forward now too, this one dressed in a suit, a miniature gentleman. He seems to hobble, leaning on a stick, and he too now crouches to peer in my face.

  “Please…I have been wrongly imprisoned. I will not hurt you - please do not scream, I beg of you. I do not have much time and must escape.”

  They step back to confer, chattering away in high infant-like voices.

  Who are they? What are they? I don’t understand…“Please. Myra will be here soon. Do the windows at the front open?”

  “We do not know who she is. She could be dangerous,” the little gentleman is saying.

  “No, no, I am not dangerous. I was ill following childbirth and lost my reason. I have been locked up ever since and subjected to terrible cruelty. I do not have time to explain, but I will die in here and so will my child. I must impress on you the urgency.”

  “You do not have much time, that is true,” he agrees. “What is your name? Who are you?”

  “Flora. I am nineteen. I have a child and another one on the way. I have to leave here tonight. Please, please…”

  From below the thump- thump- thump of Mary banging a broom on the ceiling makes the floor judder, her shouts and threats muffled but obvious enough.

  Again their eyes lock with each other’s, seemingly conveying thoughts without words.

  I have to get through to them, make them trust me and quickly. What if they suddenly become alarmed and decide to shout for Myra? They are well dressed. Perhaps they have much money and influence? Perhaps these are private quarters?

  “Why do you live up here? What are your names? Are you married or…?”

  The woman shakes her head. “Oh no, we are still children. I am Leonora, I am only eleven. And this is James, my brother, who is twelve.”

  “Twelve and three quarters.”

  The information will not lodge in my mind as correct. “Pardon?”

  Leonora pushes up a sleeve and shows me the thick plates of skin that have separated with deep, reptilian cracks. “It is something that we have, a complaint. But we are children.”

  “Oh, my Lord! But who are your parents? Have they abandoned you?”

  “No, our parents are here. We are Doctor Whately’s children.”

  It is barely possible to comprehend.

  “And you are the only ones up here? Is it you I have heard howling and crying?”

  Again they look at each other. “No, no, we have books and games.”

  “Then who is it who screams? I have heard such wailing, like a wounded animal - it carries through the building–”

  “Ah, that could be the babies, or the mothers.”

  “Babies?”

  “They are along the corridor at the end. We think it is a nursery. Or maybe they are sick. We hear them too. Our father is a doctor, you know?”

  “Yes, yes, of course. Goodness, you really are his children? I often wondered if he and your mother had any.”

  “It is most unfortunate we are the way we are and cannot attend school. We must take our walks at midnight in the forest - on this side of the wall lest anyone see us. I’m afraid we are a grave and terrible disappointment.”

  “Oh, but it is not your fault. Not at all.”

  I wish I could talk for longer. I am coming to the opinion that perhaps these children have a congenital defect and the good doctor keeps them hidden for the shame of it. How I loathe him all the more. However, time is pressing and I have no option but to implore them for help, remembering that they are indeed only children, and extremely sheltered ones at that.

  “Leonora and James, I must leave before Myra returns. I know you are young but I implore you to understand that I am not a lunatic, that I am with child, and that my punishment if caught will be a most heinous one. Please help me, I beg you. You will not be in trouble, but I must return to my family forthwith.”

  They hesitate, again looking at each other with those great searching eyes.

  Finally Leonora nods. “Yes, Flora. We think you are nice. We are sure you are not mad like some of the others we have observed.”

  To my enormous relief they now begin to
totter towards the doorway, beckoning me to follow.

  The attic room is expansive with a lit fire, paintings on the wall and furnished with a couple of couches and a good deal of books and toys, including a magnificent dolls house in sugary pink. But it is to the windows I hurry. Sash windows that overlook an orangery at the side of the house.

  “There is no one here tonight,” says James. “They are all at the church.”

  “The church? Oh, I thought perhaps the fire – I mean, I saw flames from within the grounds at the back–?”

  “Yes, it is by the lake.”

  I am confused. Do they mean their family is at the church or a bonfire? But not to dwell, the only people to worry about now are Myra Strickland and Mary. Between them they are strong enough to overpower me and time is of the essence.

  Panic surges anew at the thought of Myra suddenly dashing up the stairs and throwing open the doors; and my hands visibly tremor trying to lift up the window.

  James peers over the sill. “The drop is not too far. But should we knot sheets together? We have seen this done, haven’t we, Leonora, in our storybooks?”

  A cold blast of smoky night air wafts into the room. I’d say twenty feet or more down to the glass roof. Freedom is so close I can taste it.

  “Yes please. Good thinking, James - the glass might break.”

  They busy themselves excitedly, fetching sheets from the cupboard, but oh so slowly, hobbling with difficulty. And time ticks steadily on. Everything takes the twins, as I now refer to them in my head, an age. At least I can reach for sheets from the shelves and stretch them out to be tied together. My whole body is now shaking from head to foot. I keep glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece. Another ten minutes gone.

  “You are cold,” says Lenora. “I have scarves for your head but I rather fear nothing else would fit you.”

  “Oh, thank you, how very kind.” I had forgotten until the window was opened, how chill a night in late October can be, especially up here in the mountains. And here I am in a flimsy cotton dress with my hair shorn clean off and no shoes. She hands over a long, woollen scarf, reaching up to wrap it around my head and neck in a cowl before fastening the whole with a brooch, then fetches a shawl and ties it around my shoulders, shaking her head at the sight of my bare feet.

  “Do not worry. I will–”

  A door bangs from far below. All three of us freeze. Soon Myra will hear Mary’s shouts and the pair will be up here in minutes.

  “I have to go.”

  “But we have not made enough rope for you, Flora,” says James.

  “It is enough, I must take what we have. Thank you. Thank you both with all my heart.”

  My last view of the twins is of their astonished, quizzical faces as I tie the sheet rope to the dining table leg, then toss it out of the open window. It dangles half-mast but is better than none at all and besides, there is not a moment more to think.

  A shout has gone up but it’s too late for Myra and Mary – they cannot leave the house tonight with all those charges, not to mention the doctor’s children. Thus I fall badly onto the glasshouse and tumble down the lead pipes to the gravel below, to the sound of one of the harridans screeching herself hoarse, another banging on the glass…

  Spitting shards of rain and pitch dark, the flight is uphill and through long grass. Ahead lies the forest but a long way yet, and the exertion is a strain on my weakened heart and lungs. Stumbling every other step on legs that constantly buckle, with inhalations sounding like one diseased and desperate, there is nevertheless a glorious misty dampness on my face, the fresh rush of night air, and the earth’s mud caking between my toes. This is life, if only for the briefest moment, and if I die now – still far better than in filth and despair.

  The nearby bonfire crackles more loudly up here, the heat of it reaching the left side of my face, wood smoke curling around the tree trunks. But it is when at the perimeter rim of the forest that I dare look back, gasping for every breath.

  Lavinia House stands as a dark mansion with only the faintest glow of lamplight coming from the uppermost windows. And perhaps it is my imagination, but I am sure there are two small faces looking out of their prison into the night.

  “Poor things.”

  The voice behind is low, almost a whisper.

  Whirling around, my heart almost gives out with the shock.

  “Oh!”

  ***

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Isobel

  Present Day

  The vision left her badly disorientated. Overhead, the spidery canopy was spinning and she clutched the nearest tree trunk in an effort to stand. Her head pounded and exhaustion threatened to pull her back to the ground. The forest now seemed an alien place, threatening, dark and oppressive. An icy wind whined along hidden pathways.

  Backing out, she turned and hurried towards the light. Clouds had swooped in low across the fields and a couple of raindrops spotted her cheeks. She quickened her pace, resisting the urge to turn around. What or who was watching her go? Forests had only ever been places of deep serenity and natural beauty, a refuge in which to recharge and think things over – never before had they felt menacing. But there was something about the Hill of Loss that held onto its secrets. Dark ones.

  Instilled with a sense of urgency, she began to march towards Blackmarsh in search of Branwen. If Lorna Fox-Whately loomed large now she’d tell her to get stuffed. Something far more pressing was taking shape, and alarmingly fast, just as Branwen had said. If only she knew what was coming. Something to do with that man… Damn, where had she seen that face before? And why would he be shown in a vision? Because, by God it was real.

  It can’t be.

  It is.

  She looked like the creature in Branwen’s paintings. Uncannily, in fact, like the one on her mantelpiece – Immie!

  She must speak to Branwen.

  Rapt in thought, she hurried along the lane between the high hedges, listening out for a car or van hurtling round one of the many blind bends. Crows cawed and circled overhead and the sky darkened further. Rain was spotting more frequently now, great blotches dropping onto the tarmac; and from behind a raw wind blew off mountains still topped with snow. She put her head down, walking so fast her chest began to wheeze and her nose streamed. Why the panic? It seemed to come from a force outside of herself. And yet it was undeniable. She was almost running.

  At long last the lane straightened and The Drovers Inn came into view. Hopefully Branwen would be in. She had to tell her what had just happened. Must describe the man now revealed to her. It was so bloody frustrating trying to recall where she’d seen him. Who the hell could it be? There’d only been that old guy in the pub on the first night and it sure wasn’t him. So where? Who?

  Surprisingly, it seemed the pub was open. The front door stood ajar and a light was on. The shop, however, was shut. A little sign had been hung on the door, saying, ‘Back in half an hour.’

  “Fuck!”

  She looked around the square, hoping that the half hour was already up and Branwen would be hurrying back. But the village was desolate. Not a single car. And no one was walking along the lane in any of the three directions either. Perhaps the backyard? Branwen might be in the kitchen?

  Here too though, the lights were off, the house devoid of life.

  Cold and wet, she hugged her arms to her chest. Okay then, well there was nothing else for it but the pub while she waited.

  Delyth stood behind the bar clutching a mug of something hot, taking perpetual noisy sips exactly like last time. The woman looked wrecked - old beyond her years – with wispy thin hair, a waxy complexion and rolls of excess fat. Definitely a thyroid problem. Her doctor should have picked up on it ages ago. Mervyn Fox-Whately, wasn’t it? Yes, a wonder he hadn’t asked her to pop in for treatment.

  Delyth was deep in conversation with one of those men who liked to hog the territory – although of slight build he took a lot of space, leaning over the bar with his arms
folded in a manner precluding interruption. There was also a conspiratorial air about him - the tilt of his head implying he and he alone be listened to. As Isobel was deciding whether to approach, Delyth fleetingly raised her eyes, and the uneasy, cornered look in them was enough. This conversation was an uncomfortable one.

  Taking her cue she stepped back, not keen to have the man notice her. He had a beard. It could be Rhys Payne. Or perhaps one of his sons?

  Turning swiftly away however, it was to once again find herself looking at the old photographs on the pub wall. These were the line-ups of village folk in Victorian dress - the ones with vacant expressions and a whole host of dark shapes hovering around their auras. Swallowing down the shock, she forced herself to examine them more carefully this time, and with far less fear.

  Those people were ill, some of them epileptics or with Downs Syndrome – you’ve only to look at the photos on the pub wall…

  Of course…these were patients from the asylum. She flitted from one face to another. Very few faces appeared more than once, the set of twelve in 1892 quite different from the set in 1893 and so on. Except for one of them, no two - a lady seated at the front in a long, taffeta dress, and a man of slender build wearing a top hat. She leaned in. His expression was hard to discern, the features blurred…then she drew back with a sharp intake of breath. Looked again. Holy crap, that was him!

  “Interesting, aren’t they?”

  The male voice was hot against her neck and she whirled around.

  “You must be our new neighbour? I’m Doctor Fox-Whately. How do you do?”

  The floor was coming up to meet her. She clutched at the mantelpiece.

  His voice seemed to come from far, far away. “Are you all right? You look as if you’re about to faint.”

  Her vision! It was both the man in the photograph and this one in front of her. She managed to form some words, “Sorry, I felt dizzy for a moment. I’m fine, honestly.”

  “Well, if you’re sure. Perhaps if you sat down for a moment? I could ask Delyth to bring you some tea?”