The Lost Ones

by Anita Frank

  ‘Best get on with it, I say,’ Hector concluded helping himself to a petit four.

  ‘And are we sure this is the right thing to do?’ I piped up. ‘These things … they can go wrong, can’t they? Can’t they make the spirits angry?’

  It came as no surprise that my cautious arguments were lost in the bullish conversation that followed.

  Lady Brightwell and Miss Scott disappeared down the drive in the Rolls just before two o’clock, and not fifteen minutes later, Maisie admitted Reverend Dugdale to the drawing room.

  He was, I estimated, in his late fifties. Not particularly statuesque, he had a weather-worn complexion and the beginnings of a paunch that sagged like a half-filled sack about his middle. His black trousers and shirt were crumpled and his jacket, I noticed, was threadbare round the cuff. I wondered whether there was a Mrs Dugdale – I suspected there was not.

  Hector ushered him to a seat not far from mine. He sat down heavily and tucked the briefcase he was carrying between his shoes, which, like the rest of him, appeared shabby and poorly polished. Once seated, he fidgeted to retrieve a creased greying pocket square from his trousers, and proceeded to dab at his forehead, where minute beads of sweat glistened like dew drops.

  Hector took charge of proceedings, but not before Madeleine had asked Maisie to bring in the tea things. The vicar looked relieved to see the tray being set down. He slurped at his cup of Earl Grey and, with great enthusiasm, received a large wedge of cherry cake which he demolished in a rather ungainly fashion. He was, I have to say, the most uncouth vicar I had ever encountered. This damning assessment did nothing for my confidence in his abilities.

  ‘I think it might be best if we carry out the exorcism in the area where the presence is strongest,’ he said when he had at last been sated with tea and cake. ‘It seems to me the nursery would be the most obvious location.’ He dabbed again at his brow and ran a finger along the inside of his dog collar. He sported a shaving cut in the stubble-speckled flesh above its rim. ‘I think it is only right that I point out again, Mr Brightwell, that I can make no promises as to the outcome of this exorcism.’ He paused. ‘In short, I cannot guarantee it will work.’

  ‘I have complete faith in you, Reverend,’ Hector assured him. The problem, I observed to myself, was that the vicar did not share Hector’s conviction.

  The discussion dwindled, and it became apparent we could delay no longer. Reverend Dugdale opened his briefcase and withdrew his stole – white silk, richly embroidered with large garnet crosses at each end – which he draped about his neck. Next, he took out a rather battered leather-bound bible, its pages reassuringly dog-eared, and finally he extracted a small bottle. He spotted my interest and smiled.

  ‘Holy water,’ he explained, tucking it into his pocket. I suspected he would have preferred a flask of fortifying liquor.

  ‘I think perhaps you should wait here,’ Hector said to Madeleine.

  ‘No, Hector, I want to come – I need to come.’

  ‘Is that wise, darling? I’ll stay here with you if you like,’ I offered, though I longed to accompany the men upstairs.

  She shook her head. ‘No, Stella. I need to see this spirit laid to rest.’ Her palm strayed to her belly.

  We trooped from the room like condemned convicts being led to the gallows, with only Mr Sheers displaying any carefree enthusiasm for the whole escapade. We reached the hall to find Annie lurking in the corner, pretending to be cleaning. She ceased her activity as we began to ascend the staircase. I fell in last, after Mr Sheers, and was conscious of her scrutiny. As I reached the twist of the half-landing, I looked down upon her, a frustratingly closed book, and my courage wavered.

  In nervous anticipation we gathered before the nursery. I just wanted it all to be over and I felt a surge of relief as Hector took the plunge and opened the door.

  Cold air swept out to greet us, winding around our ankles as we shuffled forward to secure front row seats for the unfolding drama. I detected the unpleasant sweet mustiness that I had smelt previously in the room, but it was stronger than before. My stomach churned as I hovered on the threshold.

  ‘Right. Well, shall we begin?’

  There was a revealing tremor in the vicar’s voice as the flimsy pages of his bible fluttered to the appropriate section. He coughed, a phlegmy hack, and tapped his jacket pocket to reassure himself of the holy water’s presence. Madeleine slipped her hand into mine. Hector joined us, while Sheers rested against the wall with a practised air of nonchalance, but I could tell he was humming with excitement. Reverend Dugdale paused to dab again at his shining forehead, before speaking in a low, steady voice – rich in tone and surprisingly strong.

  ‘We cast you out, every unclean spirit, every satanic power, every onslaught of the infernal adversary, every legion, every diabolical group and sect, in the name and by the power of our Lord, Jesus Christ. We command you begone …’

  As he spoke, I felt the cool air in the room shift, and the tips of my fingers began to sting as if frozen by wintry gusts. The others gave no indication they were suffering similar discomfort, indeed Reverend Dugdale was perspiring heavily. I watched a large drop of sweat trickle from his temple and stream down his cheek like a misplaced tear. He dabbed at it with his handkerchief, his hand shaking, though his voice continued in its steady incantation. In a strange way I found it calming and for the first time, I felt a flicker of optimism that this extraordinary exercise might actually work.

  But just as I allowed myself hope, the cracking began.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Madeleine gripped my arm. I followed her terror-stricken gaze to the fireplace. The glass in the picture frame hanging above it fractured before our astonished eyes, dissecting the words of the sampler beneath – ‘We Are All God’s Children’. The vicar continued to recite his scripture with a look of dawning horror as the harsh sound split the frigid air. Withdrawing the bottle of holy water, he set his bible upon the smaller bed, and without breaking the steady pace of his delivery, he removed the cork.

  ‘God the Father commands you. The Son of God commands you. God the Holy Ghost commands you …’

  Madeleine cried out in alarm as something small flew through the air, smacking into the wall beside the vicar, before clattering to the floor. I watched, petrified, as it came rolling towards me – a glass marble. Hector flinched as he was struck on the arm, then Reverend Dugdale faltered as one hit him in the chest. A flurry of marbles whizzed through the air and we ducked to avoid them. They soon littered the floorboards like hailstones.

  I was unable to decipher the expression on Mr Sheers’ face, his arm elevated against the unnatural storm that continued to pelt us. Madeleine sobbed as she cowered against the door frame, but stubbornly refused to heed Hector’s plea to leave. I wrapped my arm around her shoulders and pulled her against me. There was a hint of desperation in Reverend Dugdale’s rising voice as he incited the spirit to depart, while he scattered his holy water about him.

  Madeleine gasped, catching everyone’s attention as she stiffened in my arms. Terrified, she stared down at her swollen belly, the colour draining from her cheeks.

  ‘Dear God, Madeleine, what is it?’ I cried.

  ‘His hands! I can feel his hands on me.’

  I have known no horror like the horror I felt in that moment. My whole chest contracted, and I could not breathe, as if the weight of fear itself was smothering me. I followed her gaze to the protrusion below her waist, innocuously covered by a pretty sprigged-cotton dress. I half-expected to see the fabric lift, plucked by invisible fingers.

  ‘Hector! Stella! I can feel a child’s hands spread across my belly!’

  ‘For God’s sake, do something!’ Hector implored Dugdale.

  ‘Begone, Satan, inventor and master of all deceit …’ The vicar’s voice hiked again in volume. The marbles that lay scattered across the floor began to roll, knocking into our feet, rebounding off furniture legs. ‘Give place to Christ in Whom you have foun
d none of your works …’ he cried, louder, though with less confidence before. The sampler began to rock on its hook. ‘Tremble and flee when we invoke the Holy …’ It flew from the wall and smashed face down on the floor before the grate, causing even Mr Sheers to cry out in alarm, though when he turned to me, I was horrified to see thrilled wonder upon his face.

  Madeleine was wailing for her baby now. Hector desperately batted the air about her in a futile attempt to dislodge the invisible palms. The sampler frame began to lift side to side, rocking, as if fuelled by Dugdale’s words. I cried out as it flipped completely onto its back, splinters of glass tinkling onto the floorboards.

  The reverend was also transfixed by its movement. He was stumbling now over his fruitless incantation, desperately shaking the bottle of holy water to elicit one more sacred drop. A shard of glass still caught by the frame began to lift and pivot, worked loose by an invisible force. My scream pierced the cacophony as it shot like an arrow towards him. He cried out in pain, his hand flying to his neck as he instinctively jerked aside, shrinking into a corner. Whimpering, he stared in horrified awe at the crimson blood staining his fingers.

  I grabbed hold of Hector’s arm, tugging him towards me, forcing him to listen.

  ‘You must stop this. He’s making it worse.’

  ‘Yes … yes indeed.’ Shaking, he stepped forward, the broken glass crunching beneath his feet. ‘Enough!’

  The reverend’s holy words, now reduced to a pleading rasp, stumbled into silence. The marbles careered to a stop. The only sounds were our ragged breathing and faint bird calls from beyond the window panes.

  I reeled around as Madeleine emitted a tiny cry. She was staring down at her belly, running her palms over the precious swell.

  ‘They’ve gone,’ she whispered, clutching Hector’s jacket lapels as he pulled her into his arms.

  ‘It worked – did it? I did it?’ Reverend Dugdale looked utterly bewildered. A marble flew into the back of his head, and he yelped, his hand shooting up as if to swat away a mosquito.

  ‘No, Reverend. You didn’t.’ I collapsed down on the nanny’s bed, the springs squeaking in protest. I slipped my shaking hands under my thighs.

  ‘That was fascinating,’ Mr Sheers murmured as he bent down to pick up the broken sampler frame. He propped it up on the mantelpiece.

  ‘Fascinating?’ Madeleine cried out. ‘How can you say that? It was horrible. Horrible!’ Her shoulders doubled over as her whole body convulsed with sobs. Shamed, Sheers thrust his hands into his trouser pockets, and mumbled an apology.

  ‘I – I – I did warn you there were no guarantees …’ Reverend Dugdale stuttered. A trickle of blood ran down the length of his neck from where the shooting shard of glass had cut him. It soaked into his dog collar, a spreading spot of scarlet against the pristine white. The sight of the battle-bloodied vicar brought me to my feet.

  ‘You’re hurt,’ I said, holding out my hand to guide him to the door. ‘Please come, we must dress that wound.’

  He came to me like a dazed child injured in an unprovoked playground brawl. His bottom lip wobbled as he tucked his empty bottle of water into his pocket, while keeping his bible clutched to his chest. I took his arm and led him to the door, Hector and Madeleine falling in, all of us eager to leave the horrors of the room. Mr Sheers followed behind. He paused to draw the door to.

  Annie was still hovering in the hall, the tension in her features slackening with relief as she saw us all descend. I ordered her to bring salt water and a dressing to the drawing room, where I settled the reverend by the fire. He unclipped his dog collar, and held it before him, confounded by the stain of his own blood.

  Mrs Henge arrived with the first aid box, while Annie followed with a tray of tea things. I cleaned the wound, the blossoming blood in the bowl of water reminding me of the ink prints Dr Mayhew’s colleagues had presented for my interpretation. Once I had bandaged him up, I sat back on my heels and assured him his wound would soon heal. I fortified him with some sweet tea.

  Madeleine had finally stopped crying, stifling any residual sobs with a handkerchief pressed against her lips. She and Hector sat together on the sofa, both deathly pale.

  ‘I don’t know what to make of it …’ the vicar said. ‘You have a very serious situation here, Mr Brightwell, very serious indeed. I shall have to seek counsel from my bishop if I have any hope of assisting you further.’

  He was, understandably, eager to be gone. He shoved his stole back inside his briefcase with great urgency and little care. Hector got up to see him out, but I waved him back down, urging him to stay with Madeleine while I escorted the reverend to the door.

  ‘I have never experienced anything like it,’ he confided as Annie helped him into his coat in the hall before handing him his hat.

  Once in the porch I pulled open the front door and shivered as I was assailed by a gust of wind. He pursed his lips and pressed his trilby to his head. He stepped out onto the first step.

  Words of farewell were forming on my lips when without warning he lunged at me, catching hold of my arm. ‘For God’s sake, take care, Miss Marcham,’ he hissed, his breath hot on my face as I tried to shy away. ‘I fear the devil himself is in this house.’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  I flew back into the hall, my heart thrumming in my chest.

  ‘Come with me. Now!’ I ordered Annie Burrows as I smartly marched down the corridor to the lady’s parlour where there was little danger of us being disturbed. I thrust open the door. Having no wish to be enclosed with me, she hesitated, but I wasn’t giving her a choice. I shut the door, resting on it as I turned to face her, my breaths rapid, a dangerous concoction of anger and fear bubbling through my veins.

  ‘Enough of your games, Annie! You must now see the consequences of your silence. You know there is something in this house, some unnatural force at work. You can see it, you can understand it. Be honest with me, please. Speak out and help me. I beg you, help Madeleine and me.’

  She lowered her hands to her sides and squared up to me, running through her options, deciding which tack to take, which story to tell, which lie to fall back on. But in the rigid set of my jaw and the fierce glint in my eye, she must have seen my frayed patience and unwavering determination. A sullen pout crept onto her lips.

  ‘What difference would it make? No one would believe me.’

  ‘I’ll believe you, Annie,’ I said, stepping forward. She huffed and shook her head, her gaze sidling once again. I was surprised – encouraged even – to see a glaze of tears. ‘Please, Annie. I don’t know what else I can say to you. Since the night of the fire, I have nursed what I thought were absurd beliefs about your father, but since coming here, to this house – I am convinced my assumptions were right.’ Her forehead creased; she bit her lips so tightly they blanched. I took a step closer. ‘I believe you have a gift, the same gift as your father, one which he used for good – he used it to try and save a life.’

  ‘And look what good it did him.’

  Her words threw me. She was right. It was hardly a compelling example. I let out a ragged breath. ‘Your father was a brave man. A selfless man … oh dear God, Annie – won’t you show the same courage and help me save Madeleine now?’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You can, Annie. You must!’ I could see my pleas were falling on deaf ears. ‘I promise to help you.’

  ‘You can’t help me.’ I flinched at the derision in her tone. ‘Even if I did what you want, they’ll just ridicule me, scorn me, just like always. They won’t believe a word I say.’

  ‘I’ll make sure they do.’

  ‘They won’t believe you either, miss, not with your history, you know that.’

  I was stunned into silence. She stared at her feet, aware she had been too forthright. I was reminded of the old adage ‘truth hurts’, and I found I could not chastise her for her apt rebuttal. Instead, I offered up a wry smile.

  ‘You’re right. How alike we are, you and I. We
have both had to endure the unjust judgement of others. Both of us have been deemed in some way or other unstable or fanciful … dismissed as lunatics.’ Wearied by battle, I sat down on the arm of a chair. ‘We don’t need anyone else’s help to change things in this house, Annie. I think with your ability, and my doggedness, we can achieve something remarkable here by ourselves – just you and me. No more hiding, no more pretending, no more appeasing others. Let us work together.’ Reinvigorated, I got to my feet. ‘To hell with everyone else and what they think. Will you do it? Can you do it? Does Lucien Brightwell haunt this house, and can you send him away?’

  She didn’t respond immediately. I could see her weighing up the possibilities whilst calculating the costs, but my words had clearly struck a chord and at last, with a resigned sigh, she spoke.

  ‘It is Lucien, but I can’t make him go. He’s waited too long, he won’t stop. But perhaps … perhaps if we get him what he wants …’

  ‘And what does he want? Make him come and tell us.’

  My naivety elicited a sardonic smile. ‘I’m not a conjurer, miss. I can’t just summon them for my own purposes.’

  Them.

  ‘Are there more spirits around us?’ She looked me straight in the eye. ‘Can you see them all … all the time?’

  ‘Not all, not all the time. Only if the conditions are favourable.’

  ‘And are they favourable here?’

  She shrugged. ‘They seem to be.’

  My hand flew to my mouth as I dared to pray that somehow, the stars might align for Gerald and me, and that through some alchemy, there might be a way for us to commune once again. But first, I had to think of Madeleine, and what could be done to make her safe in this house, not just for now, but for always. I lowered my hand.

  ‘So, this boy, how do we find out what he wants? Is there any way you can ask him?’