by Anita Frank
‘Did you enjoy your tour of the house, Mr Sheers?’ Madeleine asked as she handed him his cup and saucer. ‘If the weather’s clement tomorrow, perhaps you and Hector might do a spot of shooting? There are some fine woodlands here and lots of pigeons!’
‘I’m afraid I’m rather done with shooting,’ Mr Sheers answered, dropping a lump of sugar into his tea. ‘It holds no attraction for me any more.’
Madeleine turned bright pink and fumbled over her reply, gratefully returning her attentions to the tea tray.
‘Where did you serve, Mr Sheers?’ My question was a tad snippy in its delivery, but I had resented his response – it had been unnecessary and designed to provoke embarrassment.
‘Belgium and France.’ He pivoted in his chair to face me. ‘I understand you served yourself, Miss Marcham.’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘You must have experienced some very difficult things.’ His voice was quiet, kind almost, but deceptively so – or perhaps that was my paranoia. I was rankled by the fact he and Hector had clearly been discussing me behind my back.
‘I’m sure we all experienced some very difficult things,’ I retorted, my gaze sliding to his leg, though I rather hated myself for it. The corner of his mouth tweaked, and he toasted me with his teacup as if to say, ‘Touché,’ but in the next moment, an intense sadness deadened his expression.
‘We have all suffered.’ The words were so quietly delivered it was obvious they were meant only for me. Our eyes snagged and, just for a second, we recognised a shared loss, an empathetic grief that the other two would never be able to comprehend. He cleared his throat, his voice louder now. ‘We often fail to appreciate the profound effect tragic events can have upon us, upon the very workings of our minds.’
This robustly delivered statement hailed a sea change. Hector stiffened, a look of distinct discomfort frozen on his face. He swigged some tea in a manner that suggested he would have preferred something stronger – a brew more likely to give him a bit of Dutch courage.
‘Quite. You’ve looked into it a bit, haven’t you, Sheers? The subconscious, wasn’t it?’
I had the strange impression I was watching a rehearsed conversation being delivered by inexperienced actors, not yet fully au fait with their lines.
‘The subconscious is a very powerful entity, often working beyond our control – and beyond our awareness,’ Sheers replied.
Madeleine looked confused, but my inner warning bells were sounding. I decided to gamely play along.
‘How fascinating, Mr Sheers. Have you been studying this field long?’
‘Since I came back,’ he said, which I took as half an answer – he had not yet divulged when he had returned from the war.
‘Do you specialise in any particular aspect?’
‘The astounding power of creation that the subconscious appears to possess, often in response to our deep-seated thoughts and emotions. It is capable of great feats of fabrication which are so compelling that the conscious mind can be thoroughly convinced by them – in effect, the subconscious has the ability to completely hoodwink its conscious self. I find that fascinating.’
I sipped at my tea to conceal a surge of anger. Madeleine’s brow furrowed. She clearly detected the acrimonious chill that had descended like an impenetrable sea fog, but she couldn’t decipher the undercurrent that went with it.
‘Did I miss something?’ she asked at last, issuing a light laugh.
‘I don’t think Hector and Mr Sheers are old school friends at all, my dear,’ I said, setting down my cup and saucer. ‘I think Mr Sheers is here for another purpose altogether.’
She still didn’t understand. Hector covered her hand with his own.
‘I hate to say it, but Stella is right. I apologise that we have been somewhat duplicitous, but we felt – given the circumstances – it was necessary.’
‘I don’t understand.’ There was uncertainty in Madeleine’s voice as her eyes darted over the three of us.
‘Miss Scott telephoned me the other day.’ Hector spoke gently, as if to a small child. ‘She was most concerned about you.’
‘Why?’ Madeleine asked in a tiny voice, her fingers plucking at her skirts.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Madeleine!’ I exclaimed, snapped patience projecting me to my feet. ‘Can’t you read between the lines? Mr Sheers is here to offer his expert advice because we have been causing trouble.’ I spun round on our guest. ‘Isn’t that right, Mr Sheers?’
‘What do you mean, Stella?’ Madeleine asked.
How I wanted to shake some sense into her, shake her until the scales fell from her eyes! The very man she had trusted to help us had betrayed us after all.
‘Mr Sheers has been brought here to confirm there are, in fact, no ghostly goings-on in this house – merely the imaginings of our weak and febrile female minds.’
Perhaps I was being overly defensive but being demeaned by two – male – sceptics, echoed horribly of the high-handed belittling I had been subjected to by Dr Mayhew and his Harley Street cronies. My vicious tongue with the powerful sting in its tail was the only weapon I had to defend myself, and I used it now to lash out at my brother-in-law.
‘That is the long and short of it, isn’t it, Hector?’ I demanded. ‘We’re just two more hysterical women, prone to fancy and incapable of rational thought. I tell you, it’s a damn good thing we are not trusted with the vote – God only knows what we would do with it.’
Chapter Twenty-One
‘Oh Stella!’ Madeleine uttered, aghast, but Hector glowered at me with such contempt that I knew I had hit the proverbial nail on the head.
‘Do sit down, Stella,’ he muttered.
‘I’m right, though, aren’t I? You’re not old chums at all, are you? In fact, I’d bet my last shilling you barely know the man.’ I found Mr Sheers’ continued scrutiny rather unsettling, and in the end I did flump down on my chair, but only to make it harder for him to study me like a prize exhibit.
‘Very well, I’ll come clean. I have indeed only recently made ristan’s acquaintance. He chanced to overhear a conversation I was conducting with a friend at my club and introduced himself as a result.’ Hector reached into his inside jacket pocket and withdrew a silver cigarette case. Flicking it open, he shuffled forward in his seat to offer one to Sheers, but the man shook his head. Hector placed a cigarette between his lips and snapped the case shut, tucking it back inside his jacket. I swallowed hard. I was itching for one. He stood up, pausing to light it. ‘The conversation he’d overheard was a discussion of the telephone call I had just received from Miss Scott. It turns out Mr Sheers here is somewhat of an expert in the supposed supernatural—’
This praise was clearly overstated, for Mr Sheers began to qualify the comment. Reining Hector in, he denied he was an ‘expert’. Rather he professed an interest in people’s desire to assume ‘otherworldly’ interference in events that could be easily explained by the application of a little common sense and a modicum of science.
‘I’m no expert,’ he reiterated, ‘merely a hobbyist.’
Hector batted away his modesty. ‘Yes, yes, but the fact is you’ve managed to debunk quite a bit of this nonsense.’
‘I have managed to expose a few mediums as frauds, and there have been one or two “hauntings” I’ve been invited to investigate, which I’ve proven false.’
‘But you don’t do this in any professional capacity?’ I asked. ‘You’re not affiliated with – oh what’s it called? That society that looks into this sort of thing …’
‘No,’ he said quickly. ‘I’m not connected in any way to the Society of Psychical Research. As I say, Miss Marcham, I am little more than a hobbyist in this matter, but I have been fortunate enough to conduct my own amateur investigations and exposés, on behalf of friends and acquaintances, mainly.’
‘For money?’ My question was tart and the query dirty. Hector inhaled sharply, and Madeleine looked appalled, but Mr Sheers merely allowed a slow smile t
o play at the corners of his mouth.
‘Sadly not, Miss Marcham. I say again, it is just my curious hobby.’
‘And yet you are confident enough of your abilities to interject into a stranger’s conversation?’
‘I might remind you, Stella, that Mr Sheers is here at my invitation. He has competently persuaded me in his “abilities”, as you put it. He has a keen rational mind and has already cast light on what’s been happening here.’
I was intrigued now and encouraged Hector to continue. He drew heavily on his cigarette, tapping the ash onto the flagged floor.
‘We have spent the day examining the house for any anomalies in its construction that might explain some of the elements that have been troubling Madeleine, and, I understand, more recently yourself. We have also spoken to Miss Scott and Mrs Henge to ascertain what’s been going on.’
‘Don’t you think you should have spent some time questioning the people who have actually experienced these things, rather than those who haven’t?’ I asked.
Hector snorted at this. ‘I assure you, rational minds are the ones I want to hear from.’
But he had barely finished his sentence before Mr Sheers added, ‘I haven’t finished my investigation yet, Miss Marcham. I would indeed welcome the opportunity of speaking at some point to both you and Mrs Brightwell.’
‘I don’t think that’s really necessary,’ Hector complained, straightening up.
‘I think it’s only fair,’ Sheers responded. ‘To make sure everything has been done properly.’
Hector grumbled over the prospect, but I wondered whether Mr Sheers was cynically offering Madeleine and me enough rope to hang ourselves.
‘Then I think you should speak to everyone in the house, surely,’ I suggested. ‘My maid, Annie, heard the crying as well, you know.’
Sheers agreed – he would indeed like to speak to everyone. This proposed expansion of his investigation, however, did not sit well with Hector, but noticing Madeleine’s subdued demeanour, he rid himself of his cigarette and sat down beside her. He took her hand as he explained he wanted her to feel happy and safe. She bravely summoned a smile for him, but I could see she was split between her own state of mind and wanting to appease her husband – it was my belief she shouldn’t have to compromise. I was relieved when, in the end, he relented and agreed to Sheers’ plan.
The day’s light had begun to ebb from the room. When the clock chimed the hour, Madeleine expressed her surprise over how the afternoon had slipped away and suggested we should all repair to our rooms to dress for dinner.
We resorted to stilted conversation about the weather as we made our way, the four of us traipsing down the darkening corridor towards the hall. I wondered if Mr Sheers detected any danger in the pervading shadows that seeped from the walls and spilt across the floor, but he showed no outward sign of unease. My own pulse quickened as another night loomed before me.
As we reached the hall the green baize door opened, and Mrs Henge appeared. She turned on the electric lights, and the hall and corridors blazed brightly for the first time since my arrival. It appeared while Hector graced us with his presence, economy was to be relaxed. Greyswick’s creeping shadows were to be banished, for a few days at least.
The truth about Mr Sheers had spread by the time we gathered in the drawing room. Lady Brightwell, elaborately dressed in black silk and taffeta, and clacking with jet beads, immediately drew him into a loud conversation designed to be heard by us all, as she called upon him to concur with her own belief that ghosts were mere figments of hysterical imaginations. She made no bones about looking at Madeleine as she stated this, provoking such a flush to my poor sister’s cheeks that she clashed with the pink sateen of her evening dress.
‘Do tell me, though, Mr Sheers,’ Miss Scott asked, her own colour heightened from the rather rapid effects of her sherry, ‘do you secretly hope to see a ghost one day?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Scottie!’ Lady Brightwell scoffed. ‘You can’t see something that doesn’t exist. There are no such things as ghosts. It’s all a lot of tosh and nonsense – is it not, Mr Sheers?’
I didn’t expect much from his reply – he had been brought in to disprove our theory, not lend credence to it, after all. I was paying scarce attention, therefore, when he surprised Lady Brightwell by asking whether she believed in God.
Flabbergasted at the impudence of his question, she spluttered over her sherry and replied in no uncertain terms that she most certainly did – indeed she hoped we all did, for the sake of our mortal souls. I stifled a snort at this, though the others fell over themselves to concur. Mr Sheers, I noticed, failed to commit himself. Instead, he waited for the bluster to abate before proceeding with his enquiry.
‘Yet, you have never seen God, nor – I speculate now – any direct evidence of His existence?’
One could have heard a pin drop. Lady Brightwell’s expression was thunderous. Her eyes narrowed as her mouth drew into a tight knot of displeasure.
‘I know God exists, Mr Sheers, and like every good Christian, I will not challenge Him to present Himself – though I hope when my time comes I will have the good fortune of having my faith confirmed.’
‘And perhaps I shall have to wait until death to know once and for all whether ghosts exist – or whether indeed they are simply attempts to rationalise things we cannot understand or explain,’ he concluded with the hint of a smile.
Lady Brightwell promptly declared the subject closed. To everyone’s relief the conversation was diverted to far more mundane matters, until we were called in for dinner.
When the gentlemen joined us in the drawing room after their cigars and brandy, Madeleine asked whether we might have the gramophone on. To my surprise, Lady Brightwell, mellowed by her son’s company, agreed. Madeleine directed me to select a record, before coyly teasing Hector into dancing with her. Miss Scott clapped her hands in encouragement.
Lifted by the sudden gaiety, I made my way to the gramophone cabinet tucked away in the corner. I leafed through the records stacked inside and selected a popular waltz. Music filled the room and Madeleine and Miss Scott laughed with delight, as Hector, putting up a mock protest, allowed himself to be led into a clear space before the windows.
‘I regret to say, I’m going to be very unchivalrous and not ask you to dance, Miss Marcham.’
I had been so entranced by the performers that I had quite failed to notice Mr Sheers’ loping advance. I was startled to find him standing beside me.
‘I would have turned you down even if you had,’ I informed him. ‘I don’t dance.’
Not any more, at least. I hadn’t danced since Madeleine’s wedding – with Gerald. I felt a lump forming in my throat as I pictured myself laughing in his arms as he steered me around the newly weds in the ballroom at home, whispering in my ear that we would be next.
‘Promise me,’ I had whispered back.
‘On my life.’
I blinked rapidly and turned back to the gramophone, where the record was coming to an end. Madeleine called for me to put on another – ‘something jolly’. I forced a bright smile and busied myself putting the record away, before placing a new one upon the turntable, ignoring Madeleine’s impatient pleas for me to hurry. The bouncy tune was greeted with much mirth, as Hector found himself pressed into a music hall number.
‘I don’t dance either.’ Sheers tapped at his left leg. ‘I’m not as light on my feet as I used to be.’ He allowed himself a rueful smile, but I saw the sadness behind it. I didn’t know why he had come to pester me, when he could have very easily remained seated by the fire. I certainly didn’t need him to keep me company, but perhaps he felt it was his duty to do so, as I was a spare young woman, and he a spare young man.
‘Do feel free to go and sit down, Mr Sheers. Knowing my sister, I’ll be attending this contraption all night. She loves to dance.’
He chose not to take my hint and gave no indication that he had any desire to move away. He kept h
is attention on the performing pair, a faraway look on his face. Madeleine let out a peal of laughter.
‘Have you started to draw your conclusions then, Mr Sheers?’ I asked for want of something to say. He looked at me in surprise, as if he had forgotten the reason he was here. I offered him a tight smile. ‘Are you going to tell my sister and me that it’s all in our heads, as Lady Brightwell so fervently believes?’
‘I am starting to collect my evidence, yes,’ his tone was dry, officious even, ‘but as you say, it wouldn’t be right for me to draw conclusions without interviewing everyone involved.’
‘But you already seem to know where you’re going to end up.’
He smiled at my persistence. ‘Let’s just say I think the reasons for these things occurring are a lot closer to home than perhaps you appreciate, Miss Marcham.’
‘And you’ll be giving my brother-in-law the benefit of your advice, no doubt?’
‘That is why I’m here, after all.’ His answer was soft and low, and almost lost in the hubbub of music and laughter that had brought some life back to the room, a glimpse of its glory days.
‘You don’t entertain the possibility of any of it, do you?’
‘I must confess you surprise me, Miss Marcham.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I understand from Hector that you were with the VAD. A base hospital in France, wasn’t it? I would have thought that, like me, you had seen enough death over there to know the truth.’
My heart hammered against my chest. ‘What truth?’
He came closer, uncomfortably close, in fact. He was determined to ensure I not only heard the answer but felt its heavy burden also.
‘That after that last breath leaves the body there is nothing. Nothing remains. Nothing escapes to a better world. Nothing lingers. There is just death, and all that is left is an empty carcass, a hunk of meat fit only for a hole in the ground. That’s the truth of it, Miss Marcham – the unromantic truth. To believe anything else is delusional.’ He averted his gaze to the merry couple colliding comically with furniture at the far end of the room. ‘To believe anything else,’ he concluded, ‘would be madness.’
