by Anita Frank
It was a neat if erroneous theory, and I told him so. He didn’t look disappointed by my rebuttal, more resigned. He asked who I thought had set the cradle rocking that afternoon. Before I could answer, he asked me to give careful consideration to the evidence: that Annie was alone in the room when I found her.
‘You see, Miss Marcham, all of this, this terrible tale of Lucien Brightwell pushed to his death and now a dead baby, we must ask ourselves where it all comes from and there is but one source. Your maid has created an imaginative work of fiction.’
‘But Madeleine was aware of things in this house before Annie even arrived.’
‘I am convinced I can supply rational explanations for everything Mrs Brightwell has experienced. The situation, however, has been skilfully escalated and manipulated by the ingenuity of your young maid, filling in the blanks with mischief and mayhem – and now to top it all off, we have a dead baby.’
I lost myself once again in the flames and continued to sip my whisky, only vaguely aware of Sheers’ continued efforts to win me round. My thoughts turned to Gerald, and I wondered what he would say if he were sitting opposite me now. Would he have joined in the chorus of disapproval, or would he have understood the profound realisation I had come to that terrible night at Haverton? A knowledge that had lain dormant all these years, to be awoken by Greyswick.
I became aware of Mr Sheers’ voice again, piercing the carapace of my thoughts.
‘Tell me, Miss Marcham, how long will you persist in believing everything that comes out of that young girl’s mouth?’
I found the answer to his question in the flickering flames of the fire.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Annie Burrows and I rendezvoused in the hall after breakfast, ready for the day’s adventure. I had asked Maisie to send for the car, and news of our imminent departure must have reached Mrs Henge for she swooped through the baize door, her features drawn, enquiring where we were going and for how long we would require the services of the chauffeur. I offered a chilly smile and informed her we only needed to be taken to the station. It was clear she itched to know what we were up to. I had no intention of telling her.
It only took an hour to reach Swindon by train, and from there we secured a taxi to take us the rest of the way, to a village that lay just beyond the chalk downs. I must confess my stomach knotted with nerves the closer we came. I had no plan of action – the whole trip was spontaneous and ill-conceived – but I knew I had to come and speak to Edith Jenkins myself.
We soon entered the quaint village, its rambling streets formed of attractive dwellings the colour of marzipan, topped with clay-tiled roofs. The taxi stopped before an impressive property that reminded me of the doll’s house Madeleine and I had as children. I paid off the driver and we stood before the picket gate. After a minute or two, Annie asked me what we were going to do and I had no answer for her. It was now very apparent to me that I couldn’t simply pitch up at the front door and ask to speak to the nanny – it was hardly the done thing, and the poor woman had no idea who we were. I cursed my impetuosity.
I suggested we walked while I tried to formulate a plan. After the wet and windy weather that had plagued us recently, it was a pleasant change to have the pale-yellow beams of a low spring sun lighting our way. The village was quiet – only a butcher’s boy passed us, the wicker basket on the front of his bicycle laden with paper-wrapped parcels. A pretty church with a stunted square tower stood at a junction of lanes and, somewhat at a loss, we decided to dally within its grounds.
The sexton, who was tending to a flowerbed that ran the length of the graveyard wall, paused in his weeding as we slipped through the lychgate. He doffed his cap as he cast us a quizzical look, before taking to his task again, his metal hoe chinking against the stones as he worked the earth. Every now and then he bent to pull a weed, shaking the excess soil from its stringy roots before tossing it into his wheelbarrow.
We drifted aimlessly. I was most frustrated that a feasible plan was proving so elusive and was about to call time on the whole idea when Annie touched my arm. We could just see the house, and my heart leapt as an old woman with a snowdrift of hair, dressed in a half-caped navy coat, exited the front gate, escorting a girl of about five. They began to walk down the lane towards us, the girl gambolling by the woman’s side, talking nineteen to the dozen, her blonde ringlets bouncing about her shoulders from underneath her tam o’shanter. Though smartly turned out, the old woman didn’t look sufficiently well-heeled to be the child’s grandmother. I shot a triumphant look at Annie – we had just found Edith Jenkins.
As they approached the church, they veered off along one of the lanes. Fearful of losing them, we hurried from the graveyard, earning a bemused look from the sexton as we scurried past him.
We were just in time to see them disappear between two cottages. We soon found ourselves in a narrow walkway trimmed with nettles, but at the end of the dwellings the path opened into a meadow. The nanny and her charge were taking a scythed path towards a large pond that stretched out from under the shade of an ancient oak tree.
I called out in greeting, but when the nanny failed to acknowledge me, I quickened my pace and called to her again, this time by name. She stopped, glancing over her shoulder, surprise etched on her worn grey features. The little girl twisted round to look at me, her sapphire eyes inquisitive within her china doll face.
‘Edith Jenkins?’
When she cautiously confirmed she was, I introduced Annie and myself, explaining my connection via Madeleine to Greyswick. Her grip tightened on the girl’s hand at the mention of her old home, and her manner turned distinctly cool. A hint of hostility came into play when I asked whether we might trouble her for a few minutes of her time.
‘We’re going to feed the ducks,’ the girl chirped up, brandishing a brown paper bag.
‘How lovely! Would it be all right if we came too?’
She was most insistent we should. Nanny Jenkins scowled with disapproval, but I renewed my appeal and promised we wouldn’t take long, assuring her the nature of our visit was of the greatest importance. In the end curiosity got the better of her.
When we were approaching the sloping bank of the pond, Nanny Jenkins released the girl’s hand and allowed her to go forward on her own, warning her not to get too close to the edge. A plain park bench had been placed under the great oak, and when she sat down upon it, I joined her. Annie hovered near the girl, keeping a watchful eye as she tore up the heel of a loaf she had been given. She tossed pieces onto the water, scolding the ducks for their greed as they swarmed, quacking and splashing, batting their wings and pecking at rivals, to gobble up the floating pellets.
Never taking her eyes off the idyllic scene, Nanny asked how I had found her and I explained about Cook.
‘I don’t see how I can help you. Greyswick was a long time ago and I’ve put it all behind me. I really don’t have anything to say.’
She sat stiff-backed, her palms spread over her knees, her swollen ankles tucked to the side, just visible under the hem of her coat. Her discomfort was clear to see, but gradually I coaxed her into telling me about her time in service to Sir Arthur. Her eyes filled with tears as she recalled the first Mrs Brightwell, who had chosen Edith Jenkins during the last weeks of her confinement, and how a young inexperienced doctor had managed to save the child at the cost of the mother. She had raised Lucien from that tragic day, and it was clear to me she had doted on the boy.
Her responses grew terse and disapproving as I brought up the subject of the new Mrs Brightwell, who she dismissed as vain and conceited. Sir Arthur himself fared as poorly in her cutting assessment. The light dimmed in her face as I guided her to the critical part of the story, the part I so desperately wanted to hear.
‘Perhaps it would have all been different if not for the influenza,’ she said, fiddling with a button on her coat. ‘He brought it in, Sir Arthur. He’d picked it up in London, they thought, then came down for the weekend bringi
ng the contagion with him. It went through the house like wildfire – Lord, you wouldn’t believe how it spread.’
She glanced at me, before returning her attention to her young charge. The bread had all gone now, and the ducks had glided away, rippling the surface of the pond, no longer interested in the girl who pouted with disappointment. Under Annie’s guidance, she retreated into the shadow of the oak tree and began scanning the ground. With a shout of delight the girl crouched down then held aloft an acorn. Annie congratulated her and encouraged the scavenging to continue. The nanny nodded in satisfaction before taking up her story.
‘First Lady Brightwell got it, then the maids, then Lucien, then me – we were all laid out flat in no time. And then of course the mistress goes into labour at last – overdue she was, the illness must have finally brought it on. Oh, the chaos! There was me, sick as a dog, having to get the nursery ready for a baby. I said to Mrs Henge, the baby should be kept separate, but she was insistent it would be all right up in the nursery where it belonged. Sir Arthur had recovered and gone back to London by that time, not that it would have made any difference, he always deferred to Mrs Henge, and Lady Brightwell was too ill to even be aware of what was happening.’
She was painting a pitiful picture. I was surprised that Mrs Henge hadn’t caught the ’flu, but when I said as much Nanny blew a derogatory gust of air through her teeth. ‘Nothing would dare infect her. She was right as rain. She said she would take over from me in the nursery, if needs be, but she was adamant the baby would go in there as planned.’
‘So, Hector was put in the nursery as soon as he was born?’
‘That’s right. I didn’t know how I was going to cope with him and Lucien – who was still poorly – feeling the way I was. I managed for a few days, battling on, but then I got very bad. I think I had pushed through when Lucien was so ill, but once I could see him improving, my reserves just left me. I couldn’t even lift my head off the pillow. So, Mrs Henge moved me into one of the servants’ bedrooms and she stepped in to look after the children.’
‘So, Mrs Henge took over the nursery?’ I was astonished. I couldn’t imagine a less appropriate role for the dour housekeeper than nanny to a young boy and a new born.
‘I know what you are thinking, Miss Marcham. It was hardly a natural fit, but you must appreciate, the place was in chaos, with almost every member of the household staff stricken to some degree or other. And in all fairness to the woman, she did well. I was bedridden for days, but when I returned, Lucien was much improved, and baby Hector, well, he was bonnier than ever.’
She went on to recount how her return to the nursery seemed to coincide with a watershed in the illness. Lady Brightwell began to rally, and even made brief visits to her new son, supported by Miss Scott who had just returned from nursing her parents. Sir Arthur stayed in London, satisfied to have an heir and a spare safe in the nursery. Life at Greyswick, it seemed, was beginning to return to normal.
‘Nanny, may we go now? I’ve fed the ducks all the bread I had.’ The little girl came running through the long grass towards us. One of her white stockings bore a muddy mark. Annie came up behind her, throwing me an apologetic look.
‘She’s getting bored, miss,’ she said.
Nanny Jenkins was already on her feet, her hand outstretched. ‘Of course, Miss Alice. It’s nearly lunchtime, after all.’ She started to lead her charge away.
I sprang up. ‘Oh please, I just have a few more questions.’
‘You want to ask me about that day, the day he died. Why else would you have come all this way?’ She looked pained and weary. ‘But I don’t want to talk about it, don’t you see? It haunts me. I think about that lovely sweet boy, every day. I made one mistake and I will never be able to forgive myself. I don’t want to rake it all up – it hurts too much.’ She started to walk away. I darted forward.
‘Nanny Jenkins, please. I need to know what happened that day.’
‘Whatever for? What’s it to you?’
‘Oh please, it’s terribly important.’ She went to move around me. ‘I think something happened that day, Nanny, something other than an accident.’
I hadn’t meant to blurt it out, but the thought of losing her cooperation now, when I felt we were inching closer to uncovering the truth, made me throw caution aside. She stopped. Her broad shoulders sank in shock as the girl continued to swing impatiently from her hand.
‘What would make you think that?’
‘Please cast your mind back, was there anything else, anything that day that might suggest …’ I trailed off hopelessly. The girl was whining now, bored and fractious. Nanny Jenkins snapped at her to stop pulling. Chastised, Alice stood still, her pert mouth downturned in displeasure.
‘No … no …’ The cumulus of hair quaked as she refuted the suggestion. ‘It was an accident,’ she reiterated, but I thought behind her eyes I could see something stirring, some long-suppressed memory, and it seemed to unsettle her.
‘Please, can’t you stay, just a bit longer?’
‘I can’t. I have to get Alice back for her lunch.’
Alice stomped crossly on the spot and tugged again on her nanny’s hand, loudly protesting her hunger. The china doll face was less appealing when petulant.
‘All right, I’m coming now, mind your manners.’
I felt a crushing sense of disappointment as the two of them began to walk away, but they hadn’t gone far before Nanny Jenkins faltered.
‘Alice has a nap after lunch, about two o’clock. If you come to the back door, I’ll meet with you then.’
Chapter Thirty-Six
Annie and I had lunch at the village pub and waited until five past two before we trooped up the drive to the back of the doll’s house. Edith Jenkins opened the door as we approached. She led us through an uneven-floored scullery and down a narrow passageway into a small sitting room. It was simply furnished with a square dining table that seated four, and two chairs placed on a threadbare rug set before a stone fireplace, blackened with soot.
‘No one will bother us in here,’ she said, offering me a chair, while Annie elected to take the footstool beside it. A tray of tea things had been set upon the table alongside an old shoe box. Nanny Jenkins poured and held out the sugar bowl.
‘I dug out some things, after I saw you,’ she said by way of explanation, as she lifted the lid from the box. I got up to join her, Annie shadowing me, hovering by my shoulder. The box was filled with keepsakes, which she spread across the table for our perusal: a tiny pair of socks; a bundle of photographs capturing Lucien at various stages of his short life. I caught my breath as she brought out a single toy soldier, but the next item stilled my heart. It was a coiled lock of blond hair, tied at one end with a thin blue ribbon. A cry escaped me as I reached to touch it – it was silky soft. The horror of what was unfolding struck me afresh. A little innocent, murdered.
‘They’re just odd things no one wanted,’ Nanny said in her defence, as if somehow it was wrong for her to have stolen away with the sentimental treasures. I smiled to reassure her I was not passing judgement.
The final thing she removed was a piece of white paper, folded neatly in half, which she opened before me. It was a child’s drawing depicting a boy I took to be Lucien, holding a baby wrapped in a colourful blue and gold blanket, carefully drawn and utterly charming. I smiled.
‘He was quite an artist. Look at the detail.’
She glowed with pride at the compliment. ‘Aye he was, sharp-eyed and accurate. It was a complicated pattern on that blanket, yet he’s coloured it in perfectly.’ She picked up the drawing to study it. She smiled, her voice softly lost in the past. ‘Yes, he has, it was just like that,’ she said, folding the picture up again. She tucked it back into the box and replaced the other poignant mementoes she had kept with her for nearly thirty years. ‘I just thought you might be interested to see those,’ she muttered, embarrassed now to have troubled us with them.
We re-took our seats. The room s
tretched with awkward silence as we sipped our lukewarm teas. I mustered my courage and asked her to tell me about the day Lucien died. Straight away she quizzed me on my suspicions, but I managed to defer her interrogation, explaining my need to understand every nuance of that day before I could draw conclusions. Somewhere down the hallway a grandfather clock chimed the half hour and air whined in a pipe as the kitchen tap was turned on and off again. Still Nanny Jenkins made no move to speak, fumbling in her pocket instead for a pressed cotton handkerchief which she shook open and used to wipe her nose. We waited.
She placed her cup and saucer on the table and rose with a sigh, anxious lines drawing her brow as she drifted to the window, where she stood looking out upon the well-stocked garden. When the words came they were faint and incredulous, as if even now she struggled to comprehend how an innocent flow of events had led to such tragic consequences.
It was her first day back in the nursery, she told us. Mrs Henge had assured her there was no need to rush, but she felt better – the fever had subsided and the ache in her bones was gone. She even managed a few spoonfuls of porridge for breakfast.
‘Perhaps if I hadn’t eaten …’ She turned back to face us, her eyes full of misery. ‘I missed him so, you see. I wanted to be with him, and I thought I was well enough, I really did. He was so pleased to see me.’ Her eyes swam as a smile lifted her doughy cheeks. ‘He clung to me, begging me not to leave him ever again and I promised him I wouldn’t. I promised.’
She brought the handkerchief to her eyes. I gently encouraged her to continue.
‘Nothing out of the ordinary happened that morning. We stayed in the nursery – I thought that would be best. We played some card games and I read to him. I had the baby, of course, so I was seeing to Hector too.’
