by Anita Frank
He insisted we carried out a proper search of the cellar before we retreated, but we found nothing untoward, no traces of the little figure that had brushed past my brother-in-law in the dark. I knew we would not.
Hector hastened up to the realm of the living, his shoes scuffing against the stone steps, stumbling in his haste to be gone from this place. The kitchen was a flurry of activity as we dashed past it – dinner running late, delayed by the outage.
We didn’t speak at all during our return journey. My heart was racing faster than my charging thoughts and Hector was too shaken by the whole mysterious encounter to trust himself. He paused as we reached the drawing-room door.
‘What was that, Stella? What just happened down there?’
‘I think … I think Lucien was in the cellar.’ I gripped his arm. ‘Will you believe us now, Hector?’ He didn’t answer me. I withdrew my hand, his jacket sleeve crumpled from the pressure of my touch.
The others greeted us like heroes, crowing their delight and relief at the return of power, but when we drew closer they were alarmed by Hector’s diminished appearance, his deathly grey pallor and hollowed eyes. He gripped the back of a chair to conceal the trembling in his hands.
‘Dear God, Hector!’ cried Lady Brightwell. ‘What on earth is wrong?’
Sheers didn’t wait for the answer but loped to the sideboard and upended the whisky decanter. He handed the tumbler to Hector, who threw back the generous measure in one gulp.
‘Something happened in the cellar,’ Hector stuttered. He faltered over his account, his eager tongue tripping him up, shreds of rationale holding him back, but then relenting. I stood beside him, staring at the carpet. I had expected to feel something – vindication, triumph – but I felt strangely empty and even more afraid.
Lady Brightwell was the first to break the awed silence.
‘No, no, Hector. I will put my money on it being one of those wretched gypsy children. They are camped again on the common – Colonel Griffyths is quite up in arms about it. There have been thefts across the district, and now it seems they have had the audacity to break into our cellar! I shall have the constable called immediately.’
‘It was no gypsy child, Mother. We searched the cellar, there was no one there but ourselves, and no way in or out but the door – and that door had slammed shut before the hoop moved, before I sensed the child.’
Lady Brightwell continued to bluster, but when it became apparent that her son was not for being swayed, she fell silent. Miss Scott also looked perturbed, her ever-present knitting piled on her lap, her industry stilled by Hector’s revelations. Madeleine drew him to sit down and he slumped rather pathetically into an armchair.
‘Might I ask what the cellar is used for, generally?’
Mr Sheers’ question startled us all from our individual thoughts. For a moment, no one answered, then a low voice drifted from the edge of the room. We had all forgotten Mrs Henge, tucked away behind the door.
‘It’s used mainly for storage, sir,’ she said, coming forward.
Mr Sheers nodded thoughtfully. ‘Do tell me, was anything else disturbed in any way while you were down there?’
Hector frowned. ‘Disturbed? Well, Stella knocked something down when she was trying to make her way back to the stairs. What was it?’
‘A jar of jam. I accidentally knocked down a jar of jam. It smashed on the floor. I couldn’t see in the dark.’
‘So, it’s perfectly feasible you may have knocked the hoop yourself, Hector, without realising it? Knocked it loose, set it rolling? I presume it’s been stored down there for some time, Mrs Henge?’
‘Oh yes, sir.’ She clasped her hands before her black skirts. ‘A lot of Master Lucien’s things were stored away in the cellar after his death. Out of sight,’ she said quietly, ‘for everyone’s sake.’
‘And the electricity board is at the far end of the cellar, a less utilised area, I should imagine?’
‘Indeed, sir. Cook tends to use the front of the cellar for food and the like.’
Hector tidied up his pose. ‘I know what you’re getting at, Sheers, but look here, even if I did somehow knock that hoop – which is possible, I accept – how do you explain the boy?’
The edge of Sheers’ mouth tweaked upwards. ‘It’s definitely a boy now, is it?’
Hector looked flummoxed. ‘What do you mean?’
‘When you related your experience initially, you said you felt “a child”. Now that child has become a boy.’
Hector swatted away the comment. ‘Boy, child, what does it matter? I’m telling you I distinctly felt someone there.’
‘Felt?’ Sheers pressed. ‘You touched them? You touched something solid? Flesh and bone?’
‘No, no, I didn’t touch anything—’
‘Then how did you feel a child there?’
‘I didn’t feel as you feel with your hand, I felt him – you know – sensed, I could sense something there.’
‘But you didn’t feel it, you didn’t actually physically touch or tangibly experience it in any way?’
‘Dammit I …’ Hector sprang to his feet, his hands clenched in frustration at his sides. ‘There was something there.’
‘You imagined something there,’ Sheers corrected him. He eased himself down onto the arm of his chair. ‘I don’t think there was anything down in the cellar with you, Hector,’ he said gently, ‘other than your own imagination.’
Hector glared, angry at the insinuation. ‘Now, listen here, Sheers, I was there—’
Sheers held up his hand to staunch the flow of rebuttal and asked Hector to humour him. Lady Brightwell interceded on his behalf and implored her son to listen to what their guest had to say. It was apparent from the anxious set of her features she was desperate for Mr Sheers to provide a sensible explanation for the unsettling incident. She was not to be disappointed.
‘Immediately prior to the blackout, you were in the midst of an emotionally charged debate with your wife about – well, we were all witness to it, you don’t need me to expound further,’ Sheers said. ‘In absolute darkness, we lose one of our treasured senses: sight. It is instinctive to feel vulnerable – the rest of our senses heighten to compensate. So, in the cellar just now you were on high alert – and all the time, the acrimonious discussion is ringing in your ears and playing on your mind. The depth of your affection for Mrs Brightwell is clear to all; you don’t want to do anything to upset her, you wish for nothing more than to support and protect her.’
Hector looked abashed, and Madeleine flushed prettily. I clenched my hands in my lap.
‘It is perfectly possible you knocked the hoop – innocently stored out of the way – without even realising it. We all know the hoop features prominently in the only portrait of Lucien Brightwell hanging in this house. You are on edge; your mind is full of a small boy your wife fervently believes has returned from the dead, and then suddenly in the dark there is – what? A cold draught escaping through an ill-fitting brick? Well, there are hundreds of reasons why you might get a draught in a cellar – the point is this: in this heightened, preoccupied state, your subconscious interprets something which is completely innocent as something connected to the undercurrent of thoughts troubling you. It is offering you an escape route from the unpleasant argument with your wife. It is offering you a way to support her, as you so desperately wish to do. It is, in short, conjuring, for your benefit, the impression of a spectral being.’
His deduction was met with stunned silence.
‘Bravo, Mr Sheers!’ It was Lady Brightwell who spoke up, clapping her hands in delight, relief freshening her face. ‘You have explained it all beautifully!’
‘Well, now hang on a minute …’ Hector cautioned. ‘How do you explain the lights going out in the first place? Madeleine says the boy’s name and we’re plunged into darkness! I didn’t touch the damn board and they all come on again!’
‘On my tour yesterday you told me your father had the electrics run through th
e house when it was first built – when was that? Thirty years ago? Is it so difficult to believe there may simply be a temperamental fault with the wiring somewhere? There is such a thing as coincidence. I suspect your wife has invoked Lucien Brightwell’s name on several occasions with no adverse effect whatsoever.’ He paused, then smiled and held his hands aloft. ‘There, I said “Lucien Brightwell” myself and I haven’t been struck down yet.’
Further discussion on the matter was interrupted by a tentative knock on the door. Maisie dipped into the room to announce that, with apologies for the delay, dinner was now ready to be served.
‘Dear God,’ Hector sighed, rubbing at his forehead. ‘How are we supposed to eat after this?’
‘I could ask Cook to hold it a while longer if you wish, sir?’ Mrs Henge offered. I marvelled at her unnatural ability to be present without anyone realising.
‘No, no, Mrs Henge. We must eat,’ Hector said. ‘We should go in.’
The dining room was only lit by two silver candelabras set upon the table, but Hector put on the electric chandeliers the moment we walked in. I think everyone had had enough of meek illumination – we were all too aware of the peculiarity of shadows.
Once we had settled, and Maisie had skirted about delivering bowls of consommé, the conversation returned to the events in the cellar. Hector remained indignant at the suggestion that it was all in his mind, though in some ways it was a more attractive option than the alternative. Madeleine and I continued to express our scepticism over Mr Sheers’ neat explanation, whilst Lady Brightwell became its most vociferous advocate. Miss Scott remained glum as she paddled her spoon around her bowl.
‘I’m sure I shall not sleep a wink tonight,’ she complained during a lull.
None of us, save for the indomitable Lady Brightwell, had much appetite, and no one complained when Madeleine asked for the soup bowls, largely untouched, to be removed. I was surprised to see Annie appear to serve the main course. Since our arrival, she had assisted in the kitchen, but left Maisie to wait at table. Her gaze skittered over us as she proffered a vast dish of boeuf bourguignon, her disquiet patently evident, though I was unable to determine whether it hailed from the responsibility of attending us, or news of the evening’s developments.
‘I want to buy into your theory, Sheers,’ Hector said. ‘But dash it all, it was so real. The most important thing to me is Madeleine’s happiness – I want her to be able to stay here without any concerns or reservations. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.’
‘And what I say isn’t enough to convince you?’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Sheers,’ Madeleine addressed him across the table. ‘It’s not that I refuse to be proven wrong, but I need to be more thoroughly convinced.’
‘To put it frankly, Mr Sheers,’ I interjected, ‘neither my sister nor myself think we are in any way deluded, and whilst I appreciate what you are saying, none of this has happened to you.’
‘Very well, I have a proposal,’ he said at last. ‘I personally don’t think there is anything supernatural occurring within this house, but if you are so convinced there is, I can suggest a possible solution.’
‘Which is?’ Hector asked.
We all focused on Mr Sheers, waiting on tenterhooks.
‘It is my suggestion you arrange for the house to be cleansed,’ he announced. ‘In other words, an exorcism.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
There was a tremendous clatter from the sideboard behind me. Annie hastily retrieved the vegetable dish that had slipped from her grasp and began scooping up the carrots spilt by her carelessness.
‘An exorcism?’ Hector said. ‘Do you honestly think that would work?’
Mr Sheers shrugged. His flippancy rendered me uneasy.
‘If I am unable to assure you otherwise, then I think you should take a more aggressive stance. It strikes me this is a God-fearing house – ask the house of God to banish the demon.’
Madeleine watched in hopeful anticipation as Hector weighed up the proposal.
‘It couldn’t hurt to try,’ he concluded at last, taking a gulp of wine.
‘I will not have our vicar dragged into this, Hector. The humiliation is too much to bear,’ Lady Brightwell protested. She bristled as Annie offered her the vegetable dish. ‘Neither will I eat dropped carrots,’ she informed the young maid with a withering look. ‘You should know better than that, girl.’
Murmuring an apology, Annie withdrew to the edge of the room, but I was acutely aware of the tension emanating from her – what was its root cause, I wondered. Fear? Dread? Desperation?
‘No, Mother, I think it’s worth a try. I’ll drive to Turley in the morning, see if the vicar there might be able to help, if it’s gossip you’re worried about.’
‘I’m worried about us becoming the laughing stock of the entire area,’ Hector’s mother retorted. ‘Mr Sheers has provided what seems to me a perfectly rational explanation – why you can’t accept it I simply don’t know. This evocation of Lucien is as ridiculous as it is distasteful.’
‘Well, my mind is made up,’ Hector asserted. ‘I’m going to Turley tomorrow. Whatever it costs, whatever I have to promise the vicar there, I’ll do it, to put an end to this once and for all – to put all our minds at rest,’ he concluded, as he laid his hand over Madeleine’s.
I think everyone was rather relieved when the evening eventually limped to a close, with Hector and Madeleine being the first to declare themselves ‘done-in’. Their decision to retire served as a catalyst, with Lady Brightwell, Miss Scott and Mr Sheers all rising to follow suit. Miss Scott invited me to join their bed-ward bound caravan, but I declined. I had much to ponder, and the prospect of quiet reflection by the low fire induced me to remain where I was.
Lady Brightwell and Miss Scott duly exited. Mr Sheers returned his glass to the sideboard, and quietly wished me a goodnight before hitching his way to the door.
‘It’s a trick, isn’t it?’ I called out, stopping him in his tracks. ‘You suggesting to Hector that he has the place exorcised? You don’t believe for a moment there are any ghosts here, so why believe a vicar muttering some biblical phrases could restore the status quo?’
His intelligent eyes narrowed. He made no attempt to contradict me, but the corner of his mouth quivered, and it was then I understood. I swivelled in my chair to better face him, angry yet strangely impressed at his deviousness.
‘You think it is all in our minds’ – I picked my way carefully as the concept began to unfurl – ‘so us all being good Christian creatures, if we see a man of God bless this house and banish whatever malevolent spirit lingers, you think we’ll believe it’s all over and our collected subconscious will be hoodwinked into behaving.’
He didn’t concede his ruse had been rumbled, nor did he apologise for the deception. Indeed, he said nothing, just studied me further for a moment, before once again wishing me goodnight. He had almost slipped through the door when I called out one last time.
‘You should know, Mr Sheers, that I lost my faith in France.’
He stood still, his shoulders heaving with a resigned sigh. He offered me a parting reply as he closed the door behind him.
‘So did I, Miss Marcham. So did I.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Annie came to attend on me the next morning just as the clock struck seven. She was pale and drawn, and I suspected she too had passed a sleepless night. She proved to be sullen and clumsy in her distraction, dropping a bottle of scent, misbuttoning my dress. I noticed her hand shook as she reached for the brush on my dressing table.
‘Your mind is elsewhere this morning,’ I said as I dismissed her.
She held my gaze for a beat more than was comfortable, and I fancied I could detect a hesitancy about her, as if she had something to say and was struggling to find the courage, but in the end she just dropped her chin and stared at the floor.
‘I’m sorry, miss.’
She slipped away from the room, leaving a resid
ual aura of anxiety, and I couldn’t help feeling her apology was more loaded than I had power to understand. I recalled her growing disquiet in the dining room as the exorcism was discussed, and I wondered what she might know that I could not possibly begin to fathom, with my orthodox understanding of the world. I felt the first stirrings of misgiving. What did any of us really know about exorcisms? Would it just be a bit of harmless fun, as I suspected Mr Sheers believed – an innocent exercise to relieve our anxious minds? Or were there dire consequences of such ignorant interference that we couldn’t possibly begin to imagine?
I was not alarmist by nature, but by the time I entered the dining room for breakfast, my concern had become so grave I resolved to speak to Hector. I was too late. Madeleine – glowing, relaxed and happily anticipating resolution – told me Hector had already left for Turley. The relief of finally having her husband’s support was evident in every aspect of her being – the looseness of her limbs, the light in her face, the tinkling levity in her voice; overnight, she had been unburdened. But this buoyancy, this irrepressible optimism, weighed heavily on me, as I recalled Annie’s pale face and shaking hands.
‘Am I allowed to stay now?’ I asked.
‘Yes, my dear, Hector has agreed you can stay. We’ll see this through, and you will remain at Greyswick.’
I summoned a weak smile and looked away.
Hector reappeared just as we had settled down to elevenses. Madeleine had extended an invitation to Mr Sheers to join us in the orangery. I was wary of him now, seeing him as a wolf in sheep’s clothing. He was taking advantage of the others, abusing their faith to achieve his own ends, and it seemed rather underhand to me.
Hector’s energetic arrival diluted any awkwardness, as he imparted the news we had all been waiting for. Laughing, he held up his hand to staunch Madeleine’s excited questions and settled down on a cushioned wicker seat before regaling us with his morning’s adventures.
The vicar had, it turned out, been very reluctant to become embroiled in our situation, but a little financial encouragement had persuaded him, just this once, to intervene on our behalf. He was to attend the house this afternoon, while Lady Brightwell was engaged at one of her War Committee meetings.
