The Lost Ones

by Anita Frank

  ‘I think, given the circumstances, we should search the servants’ quarters.’

  ‘But I haven’t been in the servants’ quarters.’

  ‘I think Mrs Henge is suggesting the locket may have found other ways of ending up there,’ Sheers said.

  Perplexed, I stared at him, until at last the meaning of his carefully chosen words dawned on me. ‘Are you suggesting that someone might have stolen my locket?’

  Miss Scott emitted a sad sigh of resignation, but it was Mrs Henge who answered me. ‘I believe the locket to be valuable, miss.’

  ‘To me, in sentimental terms, of course,’ I snapped. My tears had initiated a headache that was beginning to drill through my temples.

  ‘But to others there might be a more monetary value,’ Mr Sheers explained.

  ‘I just want my locket.’ I couldn’t keep the catch from my voice.

  ‘I know, my dear, but sadly Mrs Henge might be right. We ought to consider all possibilities,’ Miss Scott said as she sat down beside me, spreading a comforting arm around my shoulder. The unexpected tenderness almost undid me.

  Mrs Henge crossed my room like an ominous cloud, to exert three tugs on my bell-pull. A short time later, Annie, Maisie and even Cook appeared at my door.

  ‘Miss Marcham’s locket appears to be missing. So that no stone is left unturned, I will be performing a search of your rooms. You may accompany me upstairs now.’

  She swept out. The servants exchanged anxious glances before meekly following her. Miss Scott, Mr Sheers and I fell in behind.

  We processed up the nursery staircase and across the landing. Mrs Henge whipped open the half-glazed door and led the way into the bland servants’ corridor beyond. She instructed the three servants to stand beside their rooms. As if part of a protocol I didn’t understand, the three assumed their positions, without question or objection. The two younger girls seemed calm if unassured – only Cook appeared agitated, wringing her pudgy hands on her apron. She muttered something about cakes and I realised her anxiety arose from abandoned baking rather than the unfolding events.

  Mrs Henge didn’t so much as glance at Maisie as she glided past her. Like voyeurs, Miss Scott and myself crowded around the door, Mr Sheers hovering behind us, as we watched the housekeeper carry out a cold, almost callous, systematic search of the room. No nook was left untouched. Mrs Henge brushed the blanket straight over the bed as she finished.

  She went into Annie’s room next, us ghoulish followers drawn after her, like metal filings to a magnet. She yanked open the top drawer of the tallboy, the only furniture beside the two beds, and rifled through the contents – a single cotton nightdress, three smalls, and to all our embarrassments, some sanitary napkins. Once she had satisfied herself with the drawers, Mrs Henge turned her attention to the beds. She hoisted up the mattress on what appeared to be the spare, peering underneath at the ledges in the frame. She cast the pillow onto the floor before smoothing her hands over the bed linen for any tell-tale lumps. She replaced the pillow when she was done and turned her attention to the second bed, which, judging by the nightdress neatly folded at its end, was the bed Annie was sleeping in.

  Mrs Henge tossed the pillow aside before lifting the mattress.

  She never finished her search. As the pillow hit the wooden floorboards, we all heard it: a distinct metallic clatter.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  We all froze, all, that is, except Annie Burrows, whose head snapped round in shock and confusion. Playing to her audience, Mrs Henge slowly bent down to pick up the pillow. Revelling in the drama, she slid her hand into the case, raking between the thin cotton and the feather-filled pillow inside. She stilled. There was a quiver of satisfaction about her. She withdrew her hand, my precious locket entwined in her fingers.

  A spontaneous cry leapt from my throat as I rushed forward to snatch it from her grasp, clutching it to my chest, trying very hard to stay on my feet though my legs were trembling, so great was my relief. I had my locket, and in that moment, I didn’t care about anything else. But it appeared others did.

  ‘Annie Burrows – would you care to explain?’

  Mrs Henge waited like a hanging judge for my maid’s defence. It was blurted out without hesitation.

  ‘I don’t know, I never put it there.’

  ‘You took the locket.’

  ‘I did not.’

  There was shuffling as the others withdrew from her, fearful of the criminal class. Annie focused on me alone.

  ‘I did not take your locket, miss. I never would.’

  A snort exploded from the housekeeper. ‘So, it grew legs and walked here by itself, did it?’ She tossed the pillow upon the bed, and in two powerful strides, she reached the young girl, seizing her wrist in the tight manacle of her fist. ‘Thievery is instant dismissal. Pack your things and leave this house at once.’

  Annie fought against the housekeeper’s iron grip as she continued to protest her innocence with rising panic and unshackled emotion. Miss Scott, her sweet features screwed with disappointment, murmured, ‘Oh dear, oh dear.’ Mr Sheers rested on the doorpost, his arms crossed, his expression indecipherable, the ever-silent observer of others’ pain.

  Something reasserted itself within me, as if the locket had grounded me once again. Sheers was right – it was my talisman. With it, I remained infused with Gerald’s gentle guidance, strength, morality and perception. As I watched the housekeeper tower over Annie, I realised I was looking at a distorted image – a photograph where the subjects had moved too soon, blurring reality and obscuring the truth.

  ‘Let her go, Mrs Henge.’

  My commanding tone caught the housekeeper off guard.

  ‘The girl has been caught red-handed, Miss Marcham.’

  ‘I am her employer. It is up to me how she is dealt with – if indeed she is found guilty of any crime.’

  ‘The locket was discovered in her room.’

  Her irritation and anger assaulted me in waves, but I bore the brunt of each wash. I studied Annie’s face. I saw bewilderment, fear, resentment and a profound sense of injustice, but I saw no guilt.

  ‘Just because the locket was found in her room does not make her responsible for its theft.’

  ‘Oh, my dear.’ I felt the pressure of Miss Scott’s slender fingers on my arm. ‘I am sorry to say, I do think that in this case Mrs Henge is right. The evidence seems rather damning.’ She drew close, her confidential words warm on my ear. ‘And when Lady Brightwell hears of this, she will not want the girl in the house.’

  ‘I didn’t do it, miss.’

  It came down to a simple question: who within Greyswick did I trust? The convenience of the allegation did not escape me: Annie Burrows reveals a dead baby and lo and behold she’s caught in an uncharacteristic display of theft – the penalty for which had to be her dismissal, leaving me further isolated and alone. How long would I be brave enough to remain once I had lost my final ally? The whole thing struck me as akin to Mr Sheers’ theories on telekinesis and suggestion – too neat to be true. But for those with secrets to hide, it was the perfect way to dispose of a perceived threat. I refused to be so easily beguiled.

  ‘I know Annie better than any of you, and I also know that at times things are not what they seem.’ I clutched my locket. I fancied I could almost feel it radiating the warmth of Gerald’s approval. I rebuffed the flurry of attempts to convince me of Annie’s guilt as I brought her to my side.

  ‘I am very grateful to all of you for your assistance this morning. I cannot tell you what it means to have my locket back, but I am not one to take things at face value, and something here sits ill with me. I know very well how it looks, but I am also very aware looks can be deceiving. Now if you’ll excuse me, I would like to speak to my maid alone.’

  Sheers moved to the side, freeing me to leave. I maintained my hold on Annie, though my fingers slackened as I bustled her out of the servants’ quarters. Our steps rang off the polished treads of the nursery staircase a
s I ushered her towards my room. Once safely inside, I closed the door and braced myself against it, as if my extra weight might help resist the unpleasantness outside, pressing to get in.

  Annie wasted no time in pouring out her profuse denials, her outrage simmering just below the surface. Her vent was clearly cathartic, and when I sensed it had served its purpose, I waved her into silence.

  ‘I know it wasn’t you.’

  I pushed myself from the door and crossed to the window, shunting up the sash. I flattened my hands on the broad sill. ‘Why would you take it? You and I both know the diamond earrings I brought with me have a far greater monetary value than the locket and were less likely to be missed. It is all too convenient, Annie; I never trust convenience. Someone has gone to great trouble to incriminate you,’ I concluded.

  ‘But why, miss?’

  Nature’s breath whispered into the room, cooling my angry cheeks, as I contemplated Annie’s question, but I already suspected the answer.

  ‘Because you saw a dead baby in the cradle. You saw a dead baby where there shouldn’t have been one – a dead baby that doesn’t exist.’ I folded my arms to keep the pervading chill at bay, as my mind’s eye conjured the horrible image. ‘Something has happened in this house, something that has led to terrible consequences. I think that’s what Lucien has been trying to tell us. And there’s someone still here who never wants it revealed – and whoever that person is intends to stop us, by whatever means they can.’

  ‘So, who took your locket?’

  I remembered my surprise earlier when I found my room empty. I was so certain I had heard the door swish softly on the carpet, felt the charge of another’s presence in the air. Could I have been right? Could someone have slipped in and out while I was still in the bathroom?

  ‘What happened to delay you attending my bell this morning?’

  ‘Lady Brightwell’s tray got knocked from the table,’ Annie recalled. ‘Maisie had asked for my help in preparing it because she was running behind and Miss Scott was waiting to take it up. So, I was dashing about getting everything together when the whole thing went flying. Mrs Henge blamed me for being careless – she said I’d caught the edge of the tray.’

  ‘So, Mrs Henge and Miss Scott were both in the kitchen?’

  She nodded. Suppositions raced through my mind as I tried to establish the possible intrigues behind my locket’s disappearance, but before long I felt like a puppeteer trying to work a marionette with broken strings – without connections to the limbs, I was unable to bring the puppet to life.

  ‘We need to be careful, Annie. We are not wanted in this house – there are those who wish to conspire against us.’ Her features donned a look of utmost seriousness and my heart swelled with unexpected affection.

  I needed some fresh air and time to think. I asked Annie to bring my outdoor things to the orangery in the hope that a therapeutic walk might help me conquer this fragmented puzzle, whose picture stubbornly eluded me.

  I had no desire to amble under the watchful eye of Greyswick. I was now, more than ever, suspicious of figures – living and dead – who might observe me from its windows, obscured from view. And yet, it seemed no matter what direction I took, no matter how far I walked, Greyswick was ever present, its monstrous form obstructing the horizon whenever I turned about. In the end the only way to escape it was to plunge into the beechwoods beyond the arboretum. Only then, when tracks of rotten mulch muffled my steps and trees concealed the hideous house from my view, did I feel myself relax.

  The wooded hill stretched up before me and I began to pant as I took on the incline, enjoying the cleansing quality of the exercise. Troubling thoughts of Lucien receded as I found myself immersed in nature’s glory, for bluebells carpeted the woodland around me in breathtaking sweeps of sapphire, their sweet scent intoxicating. Flies and midges zig-zagged before me, playing in the strains of sunlight that penetrated the verdant canopy – itself alive with bird calls, whistles, trills and tweets – to prettily dapple the path.

  I soon reached the top, reinvigorated and almost carefree – if only for a short time. I decided to continue along the ridge before turning back towards the house – anything to buy me a few more precious moments of peace – and spotting a suitable route, I began to make my way. Ground elder choked the wood here, tangling with mounds of brambles and spurting holly bushes. A squirrel scampered across the path in front of me, springing up the smooth trunk of the nearest beech, causing me to start; a crow cawed from the interlaced branches, amused by my skittishness, but the innocuous incident had shattered my tranquillity.

  I broke off from the ridgeline to follow a narrow path downwards. The descent was steep and more overgrown than the other tracks, and I found myself ducking under low branches and pushing aside overhanging brambles. Gnarled tree roots protruded through the dirt and I had to take care not to trip as I gingerly continued down. The pungent smell of decomposition hung in the air.

  As I got nearer the bottom, movement, some distance away through the trees, brought me to a standstill. Caught in a shaft of sunlight in a glade below me were two women, familiar figures, the one easily recognisable in her black ensemble, the other dressed in a rich burgundy coat with a high cowl collar. They stood close together, angled in, the tension in their bodies revealing the urgency of the words I could not hope to hear. Intrigued, I sneaked forward.

  A crack split the air. I felt the twig give beneath my careless foot, but it was too late to prevent it. I froze with the horrifying guilt of a peeping Tom. Two heads snatched my way. They must have seen me poised between the trees, for they instantly drew apart. Miss Scott, distinct in her burgundy coat, darted away through the wood, back towards the house. Mrs Henge waited. She was staring straight at me. A menacing moment later, she stalked away, leaving me once again plagued by troubled thoughts and burdened by dangerous suspicions.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Mrs Henge was waiting for me when I returned from my walk. I had deposited my things in the orangery and was proceeding down the corridor to the hall when she stepped from the gloom. Somewhat startled, I thought she intended to offer me some explanation for her meeting in the woods, but instead she informed me Lady Brightwell had requested an interview in the drawing room. She turned and walked before me, like a warder leading her prisoner to the cells, sweeping open the drawing-room door before stepping aside, allowing me to pass.

  Lady Brightwell – still looking peaky but with a glimmer in her eye – sat beside the roaring fire which had been banked perilously high. Miss Scott fussed about her, tucking a fringed tartan blanket around her knees. She flushed when she saw me, but soon returned her attention to Lady Brightwell, plumping a cushion to position behind her back.

  ‘Is there anything I can bring you, my lady?’ Mrs Henge asked, impassive as she watched the companion’s careful ministrations, which were being rather unfairly rewarded with barbed criticisms by the patient.

  ‘I think some Bovril would do you the world of good,’ Miss Scott declared, either deaf or immune to Lady Brightwell’s complaints. ‘It would be just the thing to build you up, don’t you think? Yes, indeed, Mrs Henge, do bring up a nice strong cup of Bovril for her ladyship.’

  I saw the muscles twitch in the housekeeper’s jaw as she took her orders, but she dipped her head in silent compliance and withdrew, closing the door behind her.

  I knew of course why Lady Brightwell wanted to see me, and after Miss Scott had entreated me to take a seat, she launched into a diatribe against Annie. Her illness had in no way weakened her opinionated vigour, and whilst at one point she was forced to see out a coughing fit, she made it quite clear she was not happy with Annie’s continued presence under her roof, as if she expected the girl to start pilfering the family silver at the first opportunity.

  When her litany of accusations and complaints had come to an end, I made it very clear I did not hold Annie responsible for my locket’s disappearance, though I declined to answer when Lady Brightwell
demanded to know whether I had another culprit in mind. Displeased by my ‘stupidity and stubbornness’ she dismissed me with short shrift, warning me any further incidents would result in Annie and me both being asked to leave, a threat I accepted with equanimity.

  I was relieved to escape the enervating encounter. I was beginning to find the company in the house unbearable, and I wondered how long I could endure it alone. But any wobble was quickly dismissed as I thought of Madeleine and how desperately she needed my help. I felt ashamed then of my weakness, when she had proven herself such a pillar of strength in my time of need, all the while stoically bearing her own devastating loss. My difficulties paled in comparison and I resolved to fulfil my commitment, come what may.

  I decided to retreat to the sanctum of my room. Mr Sheers was sitting on the bottom step of the nursery staircase, making notes in a large leather-bound book. I slowed my pace to observe him and sensing my propinquity, he glanced up. Duly caught, I offered him a rueful smile.

  ‘You are keeping yourself very busy.’

  ‘I’m just trying to be as thorough as I can,’ he said, his focus slipping past my shoulder. ‘Ah, Maisie, did you get it?’

  The young maid, radiating excitement, came running up behind me, a large paper bag in her hand. On closer inspection, I noticed it was a brand of flour.

  ‘Goodness, you are a man of many talents. Don’t tell me you’re planning on doing a spot of baking while you’re here?’

  He laughed, a deep spontaneous rumble. ‘I don’t think Cook would appreciate my efforts. Maisie, perhaps you could help me, you’re nimbler than I am.’

  Maisie was more than happy to oblige. Sheers directed her up the stairs to the half-glazed door on the landing. He then instructed her to retrace her steps backwards, all the while scattering the flour before her, until the landing and each step was completely covered. She looked aghast at the prospect of such wanton mess but set about the task anyway.

  ‘Does Lady Brightwell know you intend to cover her house in baking products, Mr Sheers?’ I asked.