by Anita Frank
It was obvious from their stark similarities and their clear familiarity that the woman was Maisie’s mother. Not wishing to interrupt them by barging through, I hung back, resting against the cold stone as I afforded them some time, mulling over the ever-present conundrum of the dead baby and Lucien. As I did so, a thought sprang to mind, and fired by a burst of inspiration, I ducked into the courtyard – only to find it empty. The back door was now closed and there was no sign of Maisie’s mother. I was just cursing my luck when I realised she must have left via the path to the stables, and sure enough, I saw her departing on that very route at a fair pace, already some distance away. Determined not to lose this unexpected opportunity, I set off in hot pursuit.
I was forced to run to catch up, and in the end, fearful she would outstrip me, I called her name. Her rapid steps stuttered as she looked around in surprise. Seeing me, she obligingly came to a stop.
‘Can I help you?’ she called as I approached, panting from my exertion.
I laughed at my own disgraceful lack of fitness, planting my hands on my hips as I struggled to catch my breath. ‘My goodness! You do walk fast!’ I laughed. ‘Stella Marcham, how do you do?’ I held out my gloved hand, a broad smile splitting my puce cheeks. ‘I’m Mrs Brightwell’s sister.’
She hesitated before transferring the basket so she could shake my hand. Her grip was firm, and the no-nonsense set of her mouth and the intelligence in her eyes warned me this was not a woman to be trifled with.
‘Hannah Probert.’
‘You’re Maisie’s mother?’
‘I am.’ Threads of red burst through the weathered skin on the swell of her cheekbones.
‘I wonder whether I might walk with you for a moment?’
Her brows dipped into the cleft above the long narrow nose that rather dominated her features. ‘If you wish,’ she said.
We did not make easy companions as we started down the drive. She was clearly bemused by my presence and made no effort to engage with me as I played with the cuff of my glove, uncertain where to begin.
‘I understand you used to work at the house,’ I said at last, gesturing back over my shoulder, where the sun’s early rays were attempting to cheer the grim grey brick of Brightwell’s fantasy.
‘That’s right. Long time ago now,’ she said, keeping up her unrelenting pace.
‘Maisie told me you were a maid too?’
‘I was.’
We entered the shade cast by the avenue of trees that lined the drive, their leaves whispering above us, sharing secrets of their own. I expressed my interest in the good old days that Maisie had alluded to, but Mrs Probert didn’t take the bait. Instead she offered me a curt smile, no doubt hoping I would scamper back to the house if given no encouragement, but I was not so easily deterred.
We were passing the stable block now, which was set back from the main drive. A young lad with his cap tipped back emerged from under its stone archway leading out a towering Shire horse, bedecked in a leather harness decorated with brasses that jangled as it shook its blinkered head. The shoes on its huge feathered hooves rang out as they clipped the stone and we stopped to let them pass. Spotting Mrs Probert, the lad’s forefinger touched the tip of his cap and she gave him a pursed smile and a sharp nod. The horse’s thick tail switched round its broad undulating rear, chasing away a lethargic bluebottle warming up for the day. As soon as they were clear, Mrs Probert resumed her departure. Rolling my eyes, I hurried to catch her.
‘I am intrigued, Mrs Probert, by the advice you gave to Maisie when she came to work here.’
‘What’s the foolish girl been tittle-tattling about now?’
‘Maisie said you warned her to avoid Sir Arthur – I’m curious as to why?’
The end of the drive was in sight, and she seemed to be calculating her chances of escape.
‘I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, Miss Marcham,’ she said at last.
‘Well, I won’t tell if you don’t.’ It was a flippant response on my part, but I hoped an attempt at humour might reverse her uncommunicative stance, and it appeared my gamble had paid off. A wry glint lit her eye. A moment later she shook her head, and a begrudging smile loosened her tightly drawn mouth.
‘Very well …’ The tone she adopted was that of a weary mother capitulating to her nagging child. ‘Sir Arthur was a typical man, I suppose. He had a roaming eye and a tendency for roaming hands too. So, having experienced them myself once or twice, I thought it only right to warn my girl what to expect – I doubted age had changed him.’
‘Did he ever harass Maisie?’
‘No, thank God!’ she exclaimed. ‘My Bill wouldn’t have stood for that if he’d caught wind of it.’ She shrugged her shoulders, broadened by labour. ‘I don’t know, maybe he had mellowed with age. Maybe he knew who my girl was and thought best to steer clear.’
‘But when you worked here, as a young woman yourself, you were aware he …’ I chose my next words carefully, ‘… acted inappropriately… with some of the girls?’
She twisted to face me, distrust narrowing her features and hardening the line of her jaw. ‘You’re asking a lot of strange questions, if you don’t mind me saying. Why should you care what Sir Arthur got up to? The man’s been in his grave a good few years, what use is it hanging out his dirty laundry now?’
‘Mrs Probert, forgive me, but I have very good reason to ask you this.’ My nerves were mounting for I was acutely aware of the sensitivity of my next question. ‘Did Sir Arthur … is it possible that Sir Arthur might have got one of the maids into trouble – in the family way?’
I held my breath as I awaited her answer, but I saw it before she spoke – a flicker of unwanted knowledge that crossed her face in the split second before she schooled her features to match her blank denial.
‘No.’
I took a step closer.
‘Mrs Probert, please – to your knowledge, has there ever been another baby – a baby other than Hector Brightwell – at Greyswick? It’s so terribly important, please.’
The colour ebbed from the ruddy network scrawled across her cheeks. ‘No,’ she reiterated coldly, her hostility tangible as she backed away from me.
‘Mrs Probert—’
‘Forgive me, Miss Marcham, I don’t know what your game is, or why you find it necessary to ask such questions, but I can’t help you. Now if you don’t mind, I need to get back. I’ve got pigs to feed.’
And before I could say another word, she took off, her basket banging against her thigh with each long stride as she passed through the gates to disappear down the lane. I watched her go, curiosity twisting inside me as I turned to retrace my steps. She had tried to hide it, but I had seen it in her face. Maisie’s mother knew something.
I had just reached the carriage sweep when the front door was flung open and Sheers came hobbling down the steps to meet me. There was an urgency about his movement that pricked my attention and hurried me towards him. His handsome features split into a broad smile.
‘My God, where have you been? I’ve been looking for you everywhere!’ His bubbling excitement was infectious. As soon as he was close enough he grabbed my hand and practically dragged me to the open door. ‘You won’t believe it. Dear God, I can scarcely believe it myself.’
‘What?’ I laughed, stumbling up the steps after him.
‘And it’s not just me,’ he grinned. ‘Annie can hear it too.’
‘What are you talking about?’
The dull hallway was chilly after the gentle warmth of the early morning sun. He led me through to the study, where Annie stood beside the gramophone, which had been set upon a table. The same wondrous excitement illuminated her own freckled face.
‘Come, come,’ he urged, closing the door behind me. ‘We don’t want anyone sneaking up on us.’
‘Miss, it’s amazing.’
‘Will one of you please tell me what on earth is going on?’ I said, as Tristan escorted me across the room.
‘This
is what we recorded last night,’ he said as he pressed a button on the machine, setting the turntable in motion. The engraved disc upon it began to rotate beneath the stylus. There was a constant rhythmic rasp of static before clumping noises reminiscent of some sort of kerfuffle. ‘Don’t worry about this bit, this is when I had it upstairs on the landing,’ Tristan explained. I went to speak but he held up his hand to stop me. ‘Now hang on, yes, this is where it gets turned off and I lug it downstairs. Starting up again now, in the smoking room …’ He reduced to a whisper as he drew his commentary to a close. He held his finger to his lips to deter any further questions, his head cocked to one side. Annie, too, inched closer. I listened to the resumption of static, deafeningly loud and rather unpleasant – and then I heard it.
My heart staggered as my jaw quite literally dropped on its hinge. Mystified, I looked first to Tristan, then to Annie, and back to Tristan for confirmation, but the eruptive euphoria on both their faces told me all I needed to know.
Amongst the harsh static I had heard a voice – a soft, high-pitched child’s voice, an expelled breath cutting through the din. It had uttered a single word:
Here
Chapter Forty-Five
Light-headed I reached for the table to steady myself.
‘Are you all right?’ Tristan’s euphoria was replaced with concern as he switched off the machine.
I assured him I wasn’t unwell, I was quite simply mystified. Captured in a groove on a shellac-coated disc was the voice of a boy who had been dead for over twenty years. My dull brain was struggling to fathom how that could even be possible.
‘Is this what you hear?’ I asked Annie.
‘Yes, but, no … not like this. When I hear their voices, they’re trapped in my head. To hear a voice like this …’ She shook her head in wonderment.
‘So what does it mean?’ I asked, perplexed. ‘What’s “here”?’
‘Whatever he’s trying to tell us, the smoking room holds the key,’ Annie said.
‘Mrs Henge holds the key,’ I retorted. I met their confused stares. ‘I saw her lock the door last night. I doubt she’ll be keen to unlock it again any time soon.’
‘Well, we have to get back in there, one way or another,’ Tristan declared. ‘For whatever reason it’s significant to Lucien.’
I told them of my conversation with Mrs Probert, and my absolute conviction that she knew more than she was willing to let on. We also discussed whether we should share the existence of the recording with the others, but after the incident with the footprints we decided the record needed to be safeguarded, and the best way to do that was keeping its content secret for the time being.
I was keen to persevere with Mrs Probert and proposed to visit her that afternoon. I suggested that Annie accompany me, in the hope a joint appeal might prove more successful. Tristan, meanwhile, intended to revisit the architectural plans, now fearing he had missed something of significance during his initial inspection. So decided, we parted, all of us more determined than ever to decipher the clues that Lucien Brightwell was laying out before us.
Using a little flimflammery, Annie and I managed to glean Mrs Probert’s address from Maisie and were readying ourselves to depart when Lady Brightwell and Miss Scott came down the stairs, themselves dressed for an outing.
I hailed Lady Brightwell’s apparent return to full fettle and enquired whether they were off somewhere nice, deciding some bonhomie might go a long way, given the circumstances. Diplomatically ignoring Lady Brightwell’s ill-tempered scowls, Miss Scott informed me they were visiting the vicar to discuss the flower rota.
‘The displays have been somewhat meagre lately,’ she confided, ‘which has quite distressed Lady Brightwell.’
‘I don’t care if there is a war on,’ her ladyship barked, her voice displaying no detrimental effects of her recent illness, ‘there is no excuse for letting standards slip.’
The vestibule door rattled open and Mrs Henge swept in, like a carrion crow fresh upon a carcass. She eyed Annie and me with distaste before attending Lady Brightwell, informing her that the car was waiting out front. Seeing we too were preparing to go out, she waspishly offered to have the dog-cart sent for. I thanked her for her most generous offer but assured her such luxury was not required as we wanted to stretch our legs and enjoy some fresh air.
‘Are you going anywhere in particular? Perhaps we could drop you somewhere if you are heading towards the village? There are some lovely walks from the churchyard,’ Miss Scott suggested, only belatedly thinking to seek Lady Brightwell’s approval for the plan. Her ladyship did not look best pleased. I explained we wouldn’t be going as far as the village.
‘Well then, where are you intending to go?’ Lady Brightwell demanded. I dodged the question, not wishing to reveal our actual destination. ‘Well, there is plenty of fresh air to be had in the grounds. You may have noticed they are quite extensive.’ She tapped her cane on the marble floor. ‘Why, before my stroke I would walk for miles every day and never have need to leave the estate.’
But those days were over. The enduring effects of her affliction were blatantly clear as we followed her from the house. She was now reliant upon her stick and Miss Scott stayed in close attendance in case further help was required. Mrs Henge oversaw our departures from her perch on the top step of the porch. I could almost feel her hooded stare boring into my back.
The promising brightness of the morning had taken on a threatening yellow hue as Annie and I started down the drive, the air close and heavy, compounded by the fug of exhaust fumes and spewed-up dust, gifts from the departing car. A bank of leaden storm clouds moved in from the west, and as the wind picked up a parliament of rooks took off from a cluster of oaks in the park, cawing raucously.
The entrance gates creaked as we passed through them, buffeted by the mounting breeze. We took the lane leading to the village until we reached the stile that broke the hawthorn hedge on the left. Following Maisie’s instructions, we climbed over to find ourselves in a field of brown and white cows, peaceably chewing the cud. Avoiding sloppy pats colonised by marauding metallic-green flies, we made our way across, letting ourselves out through a wooden gate into the rutted lane beyond. The bulbous heads of sprawling mayweed thrashed against our boots as we strode towards the low-slung farmhouse that stood before us, smoke winding from its chimney.
A lichen-spattered stone wall adorned with cascades of mauve flowers separated the front garden from a farmyard bordered with ramshackle buildings. I battled with a sticky latch on the picket gate. It pitched alarmingly when I finally managed to release it, giving us access to the flagged path leading to the front door. A rambling rose had been trained around the lintel, and it already boasted a few peach blooms, heady with scent. I raised the brass knocker and rapped it heavily against the wood, my stomach churning with nervous anticipation.
We heard approaching footsteps. There was a screech of dormant bolts being yanked from their beds. A key turned with difficulty in the lock. I smiled as Mrs Probert regarded me with a flash of astonishment that soon morphed into hardened wariness. Her simple dress, its sleeves rolled to the elbows, was covered by a pinafore bearing an unpleasant red stain, and her feet were adorned with threadbare slippers.
‘Miss Marcham, well, this is unexpected. What can I do for you?’
‘Mrs Probert, I do apologise for calling on you unannounced like this. I was wondering whether my maid Annie and I might perhaps come in for a brief word?’
‘What about?’
‘I was very much hoping to continue our conversation from this morning.’
‘I’ve said all I have to say.’ She began to close the door.
‘Please, Mrs Probert, it’s very important.’ I pressed my hand against the paint-peeled wood. ‘You’re one of the very few people who can help us.’
‘Help you with what? I’m sorry, Miss Marcham, but I don’t know why you’re wanting to ask all these strange questions – the past is the past, God knows we’
ve got enough going on in the present to keep us occupied. I suggest you go and do something useful rather than dredge up what has been.’
This elusive reference was all I needed to reinvigorate my campaign. I left my palm against the door, prepared to battle my way over the threshold if necessary. I was determined to wrangle from her what she knew, one way or another.
‘Mrs Probert …’
‘You should let us in, Mrs Probert.’ The gentle timbre of Annie’s voice was so at odds with the mounting acrimony that it stopped both Mrs Probert and myself in our tracks. Her eyes were feverish, yet otherwise she appeared placid. ‘There is an older woman with you – she thinks it would be for the best. She knows all about the lost souls of children – but your two are safe, she has them with her. And you should get some new slippers – wearing those …’ she gestured to the ones on Mrs Probert’s feet, ‘won’t bring her back.’
The sturdy farmer’s wife blanched. Her whole body began to quake.
‘What did you say?’
‘Please, Mrs Probert, may we come in?’
I wasn’t sure she had heard me – I wasn’t even sure she was listening. Annie’s strange message had taken a profound toll on the woman before me. The wind whipped a handful of dead leaves into the house, and at this she gathered herself. She pulled the door wide open and we stepped into the narrow grey-flagged hallway. Closing the door, she shuffled around us to lead the way, past shut-up rooms, to the gaping doorway at the end of the hall.
We came out into a large kitchen. Dried posies of herbs hung from the fierce-looking hooks that studded the beams above our heads. A black range occupied the inglenook fireplace and before the window was a deep ceramic sink with a sturdy copper tap.
In the middle of the room stood a pine table. At one end, bundled together, lay four dead chickens, their thin necks stretched, the heads with their black sightless eyes lolled to the side, their sharp beaks open in silent protest. The kitchen window above the sink was slightly ajar and a cool breeze ruffled the birds’ ruddy-brown feathers. There was a bucket at the foot of the table containing blue coils of intestine and glistening lumps of maroon-coloured organs and I realised that the putrid smell hanging in the air was that of discarded innards mixed with a hint of turps. The hessian sack next to the bucket was filled with feathers, and on the table above it was the stipple-skinned carcass of the chicken she must have been plucking before our arrival.
