by Anita Frank
She snorted. ‘It doesn’t work like that, miss. I can’t just have a conversation with him like you and I might.’
‘Then how does it work?’
‘They show me things, each in their own way, so I understand what they’ve seen, what they’ve felt, what they’ve done – so that I get a sense of them, a sense of what’s happened, a sense of what they need.’
‘Need?’
‘To satisfy them.’
The chilling detachment of her words sent a shiver of apprehension down my spine.
‘And what will satisfy this boy?’
Her violet eyes locked with mine. ‘Justice, miss. What he wants is justice.’
The ruckus of Lady Brightwell’s return filtered into the room. I heard the faint call of my name. Annie fidgeted to be gone. My name was called again – it was Madeleine, her voice shrill and needy. I was torn between intrigue and duty.
‘We must speak on this further. You have more to tell me, Annie,’ I urged, fearful that in the interlude the girl would change her mind about helping me. Madeleine called again and I had little choice but to answer her insistent summons.
I met her in the hallway. Annie hurried past me to help Maisie who was struggling under coats and fur stoles and enormous feathered hats. Madeleine took my hand, leading me in the direction of the drawing room.
‘Oh, you must come! Lady Brightwell has returned – she saw the vicar on the road. And Mr Sheers, well, Mr Sheers has drawn one of his stunning conclusions, even now.’
Sheers and Hector were stood by the mantel. Lady Brightwell and Miss Scott were seated in their usual positions on the sofa as if they had never been away, listening, open-mouthed, to Hector’s account of the day. As he concluded, he pushed back the fringe of hair from his forehead. ‘However, it seems Mr Sheers has a theory to belie the nature of these events.’
‘A theory?’ I advanced into the room. ‘Come, Mr Sheers, surely even you must now concede there is something extraordinary occurring here?’
‘Something extraordinary is indeed occurring, just not what you think.’
Flummoxed, I sat on the edge of the armchair nearest to me, whilst Madeleine settled into its seat.
‘Have you heard of telekinesis?’ When Sheers had gauged we were all ignorant, he continued. ‘We don’t fully understand all facets of telekinesis yet,’ he continued. ‘But, in layman’s terms, it’s the power of the mind over objects. I am confident that what I witnessed earlier was a truly astounding display of this phenomenon.’
‘Are you saying yet again that we made it all up?’ I protested. ‘You were there yourself! You saw it all, so how can you possibly deny—’
He quickly held up his hand to stop me. ‘I’m not denying anything. It all happened – the breaking glass, the flying marbles. Absolutely. Quite astounding. What I am questioning is the cause of these extraordinary occurrences. You all have leapt to the conclusion they were the result of a malevolent spirit. With a more, dare I say, scientific view, I think they were the result of the amalgamated power of four intelligent minds.’
We all began to object, but he held up his hands to stop us, his expression indulgent.
‘Everyone in that room was aware of the events that had brought them there – the breaking glass, marbles moving by their own volition, the presence of a ghost child. Whilst you may not have consciously known what to expect from the exorcism, I suspect subconsciously, you all thought a recurrence of these phenomena a distinct possibility. The result? The combined power of your mental thoughts physically affected your environment to fulfil those shared expectations.’
He was met by a confounded silence as we all tried to process this staggering argument.
‘But how did these things happen in the first instance?’ Madeleine braved at last.
‘Naturally, I’m sure,’ he said. ‘The photo frame probably was broken by accident; the marble set rolling by movement in the floorboards—’
‘But the hands …’ she said softly.
‘Merely the power of your imagination.’
‘I don’t know, Sheers.’ Hector rocked on his heels. ‘I understand what you’re saying, believe me I do, and I’d be lying if I didn’t say a large part of me buys into it wholeheartedly – but however hard I try, I just can’t get past what I experienced in the cellar, and then today …’ He shook his head.
‘I think you’re wrong, Mr Sheers,’ I piped up. ‘I think it is you that is blinkered to the possibilities, not us. You have not presented a shred of evidence except your own say-so. I have to put greater faith in what I have seen with my own eyes.’
‘But your own eyes are part of the problem, my dear.’ Lady Brightwell’s acidic interruption took me by surprise. Until now she had sat in silent attendance upon Sheers’ lecture. ‘I think Mr Sheers has presented a most fascinating and compelling argument. Telekinesis. Wonderful. I must say, Mr Sheers, once again you have managed to debunk these fanciful theories. Your keen mind is most impressive, young man. Most impressive indeed.’
‘He hasn’t proven anything!’ I contradicted. ‘I say again, Mr Sheers – where is your physical evidence? There must be something more tangible than theory that you can offer us?’
‘In all fairness, Miss Marcham, I have not yet carried out a full investigation, but,’ he addressed Hector here, ‘if you give me the liberty to stay, I will happily set up some equipment and hopefully then provide some concrete elements to my argument.’
‘Oh, I really don’t think there’s any need for that,’ Lady Brightwell protested. ‘I’m sure we have taken up enough of your valuable time as it is.’
‘I’m not satisfied, Hector.’ Madeleine’s voice cut a swathe through our chatter. ‘You want me to stay here, but how can I? How can I stay in this house after what has happened today? How can I ever live here again? I know this is your home, and I want so much for it to be my home too, but until this matter is resolved I shall never feel safe here. I’m sorry, Mr Sheers, I mean you no offence, but it will take more than your logical analysis to reassure me.’ She turned back to Hector. ‘I cannot remain in this house.’
‘And I don’t think you should,’ he replied. ‘I’m not prepared to take any chances, not with you and our child. I think you should return to Haverton for the time being. I can drop you and Stella back on my way to London. All right, Sheers. Stay, as long as you need to conduct a proper investigation, but I’ll be expecting some hard and fast facts to explain what’s been going on here.’
‘Of course.’
‘Then I would like to stay too,’ I blurted out.
‘For what possible purpose?’ Lady Brightwell demanded.
I knew full well that Annie and I were Madeleine’s only real hope. There was so much at stake, I could not allow us to be banished from the house now – not with Annie finally on side and certainly not with the prospect of contacting Gerald so tantalisingly within reach. I would not leave Greyswick, not for anyone. I drew myself up, ready to brandish my sword in whatever battle lay ahead. I was determined to be victorious.
‘What if Mr Sheers is wrong? What if there is another force at work here?’
I did not dare to try and explain Annie’s extraordinary ability, knowing it would serve against me. Instead, I chose to strike a blow at Hector’s Achilles’ heel.
‘Hector, please. I think Madeleine would take comfort from my staying, and at the end of the day, if I don’t experience anything, and if Mr Sheers manages to convince me there is nothing awry, then what greater reassurance could Madeleine have?’
Everything rested on the success of my appeal. Hector vacillated, but Madeleine came to my rescue once again.
‘Oh, Hector, Stella is right. If I knew she considered it safe, I would have no reason to stay away.’
‘Stuff and nonsense,’ Lady Brightwell muttered.
‘Very well.’ Hector knew when he was defeated, and he surrendered with good grace given the circumstances. ‘If you want to stay, Stella, then stay, but I don�
��t want you causing mischief and I don’t want you getting in Tristan’s way.’
I resented being chastised like a school girl by a man barely older than myself, but I eschewed that fight and celebrated my victory instead: I was staying.
With a satisfactory plan of action decided, the party broke up. A very disgruntled Lady Brightwell announced she had caught a chill whilst walking to the Rolls, which, due to a war bonds rally, had been unable to collect her from outside the town hall. She was already sniffling into a camphor-soaked handkerchief. Miss Scott promised to see off any illness by keeping her wrapped up and comfortable, but Lady Brightwell was unconvinced.
‘It is too late, Scottie! I am practically on my death bed already – I can feel the ague seeping in to my very bones as we speak. I shall be most ill by morning, mark my words.’
Aghast at the grim prophecy, Miss Scott wasted no time ushering her charge to bed. She returned a few minutes later, declaring that her Ladyship was indeed ‘most unwell’, before disappearing off to prepare a hot honey drink.
Mr Sheers requested permission to continue using the study and whilst Hector made no objection, he did warn the room had lain untouched since Sir Arthur’s death and was not, as a result, in the best order. Assuring Hector it was quite satisfactory, Mr Sheers excused himself, as he needed to arrange a delivery of equipment, necessary for his investigation.
I myself was eager to pursue my consultation with Annie, and detecting that Madeleine and Hector wished to be alone, I returned to my bedroom. I summoned the maid with the bell-pull and paced the room while I waited for her knock. She closed the door behind her. I so wanted to discuss the prospect of contacting Gerald, but I knew I could not. There would be opportunity yet for that precious matter. For now, I had to prioritise Madeleine. I wasted no time.
‘What did you mean, when you said that Lucien wanted justice?’
She stood before me, her clasped hands dimpling her white apron front, her head hung low.
‘Have you not worked it out yet?’
‘What?’
‘I thought perhaps after what happened you might have realised the truth.’
‘What truth?’
She looked up. She waited. Thoughts charged through my mind as I struggled to make the connections she so obviously expected of me. They share experiences, or feelings … And then I recalled those small hands shoving against my back. The blood thickened in my veins. The girl before me already knew what I had only just this moment understood.
‘Dear God!’
Lucien Brightwell didn’t fall to his death in a tragic accident.
Lucien Brightwell was pushed.
Chapter Thirty
It seemed an age before my shock abated. Tendrils of implication choked my thoughts.
‘Do you realise what you’re saying?’
‘Yes, miss.’ The maid’s youthful guise slipped away, revealing a life-worn sagacity that belied her age. ‘He seeks justice for the wrong done to him,’ she offered quietly, ‘and maybe …’
I waited, eager for her to impart her terrible knowledge. A seismic shift had occurred between us, one that had pitched me into unfamiliar territory, a reversal of power that to my shame I almost resented. I needed her, this freckle-spattered slip of girl. I needed her to interpret things I had no hope of understanding alone.
‘And maybe?’ I prompted.
‘Retribution.’
‘But against whom? Who would push a child to his death?’ The concept was repugnant; there could be no justification for such an unconscionable act. ‘Are you sure it wasn’t an accident?’ I groped for a more innocuous if no less tragic explanation. Accidents with children happened so easily – they were fragile and foolish, irresponsible and impetuous. A silly stunt could easily result in an awful outcome.
‘He knows what was done to him.’
I wanted so much in that moment to doubt her, ridicule her, but I had come too far and acknowledged too much to deny her abilities now.
‘Who did it? Who is responsible?’ I managed at last.
‘He either doesn’t know or can’t show me – but I sense it’s someone who’s still here.’
Faces danced before me – Lady Brightwell, Miss Scott, Hector, Mrs Henge. I closed my eyes as their swimming images blurred together. The prospect of being under the same roof as a murderer was distinctly unnerving.
‘We have to get rid of him,’ I whispered.
‘Then we must give him what he wants.’
‘And how are we supposed to do that?’
‘By finding out who killed him.’
I knew we could not divulge this latest revelation to anyone. For one thing, I had little appetite for the ridicule that such a pronouncement was sure to bring, for another, I was in the vulnerable position of not knowing who was friend and who was foe.
Annie was soon summoned from me. Madeleine was keen to start packing and tasked Annie with helping Maisie lug the trunks down from the attic. The dull step-by-step thud as the cases bounced down the nursery stairs stirred up my turbid thoughts.
The reality of Madeleine’s imminent departure left me feeling daunted and rather morose. I would be remaining in this strange house as an unwelcome guest with Annie Burrows as my only ally – a prospect that didn’t inspire much confidence. I sought the solace of my sister’s company, but she was embroiled in the chaos of packing and it soon became clear I was in the way. Redundant, I retreated to my room, leaving my door ajar in case she should call for my assistance.
Having nothing else to occupy me, my thoughts turned to the mystery of Lucien. I tried to recall the titbits of information I had gleaned since my arrival, things I had dismissed as irrelevant at the time, but which now appeared potentially pertinent. It was like rummaging through a wastepaper basket, looking for a letter accidentally discarded, now lost amongst a muddle of scrunched-up notes and unwanted papers. I was determined to appreciate the significance of all I had learnt – the motherless boy, the dismissed nanny, the influenza outbreak. I would find a way to fit the pieces of this appalling puzzle together. I just didn’t know where to start.
Feeling rather useless, and in need of comfort, I kicked off my shoes and sat on the bed, retrieving my copy of The Woman in White from the bedside table. My fingers caressed the brown leather cover. It was my last gift from Gerald, and I could recall the day he gave it to me in minute detail.
It was just after Madeleine’s wedding. Our being able to attend together had made the celebration a blissful interlude from the relentless misery of the front, but his leave had drawn to a close, though I still had a few more days remaining of mine. I had insisted on travelling with him to Victoria station, where he would join his troop train for the south coast. We sat together in a first class carriage, our shoulders tightly pressed, his hand trapped in mine, determined not to let our mounting sadness ruin these last precious hours.
Victoria had been a swirl of choking steam, soot, sweat and cigarette smoke. Khaki-clad bodies milled across the platforms. I was jostled by shouldered kit bags, as Gerald led me through the clamouring crowd, screeching whistles piercing the muted sobs of farewell and the shouted jests of naive young men buoyed by the prospect of battle.
We had an hour to wait, and had taken tea at a kiosk, standing beside it with our white porcelain mugs. For some reason, the conversation had turned to books, and Gerald was horrified when I confessed I had never read any Wilkie Collins.
‘Well, I’m sorry, that just won’t do,’ he said with mock disgust. I looked suitably chastised and laughed in bemusement as he threw back the dregs of his tea, and scooped up our mugs, handing them back into the stallholder, before returning to me. He clapped his hands together, the sound muted by his leather gloves.
‘Right, you Philistine you, wait here.’
‘Where are you off to?’ I asked, alarmed. I snatched a glance at the station clock. Our time was running out.
With a lopsided grin, he gripped my arm and pressed his lips to my cheek.
‘Never fear, I’m not abandoning you, not yet at least, but there is now something I have to do, in the name of Mr Collins.’
He winked before dashing off. I watched him weave his way through the crowd, saddened to be left alone when I prized every second with him, but when I saw him duck into the bookstall at the far side of the station, I couldn’t help but laugh. He came jogging back a few minutes later, a book in his hand. He grinned as he presented it to me.
‘Sorry I didn’t have time to wrap it.’
I turned the book on its side to read the spine. The words The Woman in White were written in gold.
‘Have you a pen to hand?’ he asked.
‘What?’
‘Come on, you’re a practical girl, I bet there’s a pen or a pencil in that bag of yours.’
Chuckling at the absurdity of it all, I scrabbled amongst the contents of my handbag until, with a look of triumph, I produced a fountain pen.
‘That’s my girl!’ he cried, taking it from me and reclaiming the book. He opened the cover and turned to rest it against the station wall, but he stopped, glancing back at me over his shoulder. ‘Don’t peek,’ he instructed. Rolling my eyes, I obediently complied. ‘There, all done,’ he said at last, blowing the ink dry. He closed the book before returning it to me, our fingers brushing in the exchange. I went to open the cover, but he laid his palm upon it. ‘Don’t read it now,’ he said, ‘save it for later.’
He picked up his case and took my hand and together we walked towards the platform where his train was waiting, my legs growing heavier with each step, my chest tighter, and my tears more threatening.
There was a tremendous bustle, as soldiers of all ranks jostled their way through the open doors, those with loved ones seeing them off pausing for a final farewell until, God willing, they would see each other again. Gerald found his carriage and turned to me, a brave smile on his lips, a wistful sadness dulling his eyes.
‘Well, this is it,’ he said.
I couldn’t speak. I threw my arms around his neck and held him close, not caring one jot for propriety or who might see, as I pressed my lips to his.
