by Anita Frank
‘Stella, Stella, are you still there?’
I assured him I was – still present but reeling.
‘We need to talk more on this,’ he said. ‘I’m going to catch the next train. I’ll be back in a couple of hours at most. Are you all right?’ he added, the concern evident in his voice.
I lied when I told him I was quite well. There was a resonant click on the line as he terminated the call. I replaced the receiver on its hook and pushed the telephone back into its correct position at the corner of the desk. My following immobility contradicted my racing thoughts. I was a duck on the pond – so peaceful above the surface, but all frantic movement beneath, as I propelled myself through the horror augured by this latest intelligence. After a while I couldn’t bear to contemplate it any longer, and I rose, steeling myself as I headed for the door.
Maisie was loitering in the corridor, waiting for me. She dipped a shifty curtsy and I wondered whether she might have been eavesdropping. She informed me Lady Brightwell wished to see me in the drawing room. I pressed my fingertips to my aching temples.
My surroundings seemed unbearably oppressive now, knowing what I did, and as I trailed after Maisie, I was more aware than ever of the coffin-like quality to the airless corridors, the density of the shadows clinging to the walls, and the burden of secrets that depressed this monstrous confection.
Maisie opened the drawing-room door and pulled it to as soon as I had crossed the threshold. I had the perturbing sensation of a prison door clanging shut.
Lady Brightwell and Miss Scott were seated on their usual sofa beside the fire, facing me, but I was surprised to see they were not alone. Sitting opposite them with his back to me was a broad-shouldered gentleman, a few ribbons of grey hair stretched across his liver-spotted pate.
I was alerted by a familiar rustle of skirts. A shifting shadow caught the corner of my eye and I snatched round to see Mrs Henge move to bar the door. My instinctive alarm bells, honed from months of bitter experience, began to clamour their frantic warning.
‘Ah, Miss Marcham, here you are at last.’ Lady Brightwell’s jewelled hand tapped the arm of the sofa in satisfaction as she fixed me with a rapacious smile, her beady eyes gleaming with satisfaction. ‘We’ve been waiting for you. Miss Scott and I have had the pleasure of enjoying the company of an old family friend of yours …’
With a gusty puff of breath, the gentleman before me set down his teacup and stood, turning to face me. He smiled, though the expression failed to alleviate the arctic qualities of his frozen eyes.
Dread flooded through me.
‘Dr Mayhew,’ I whispered in horror.
Chapter Forty-Nine
‘Hello, Stella, my dear, how are you?’
He seemed so harmless standing there in a tweed jacket buttoned over a plum waistcoat, a complementary paisley cravat tied at his throat, his puffed-out cheeks mottled red. He looked like a genial uncle come to visit, but I took his presence as a portend of things to come. This was no chance encounter – he had been sent here, and there could be only one possible reason for that: he had come to take me back.
I fought to maintain my indifferent exterior, clutching my hands before me in a crenulation of knuckles to hide any tell-tale tremor. I offered him a spurious smile and bade him welcome, hoping I alone could detect the potency of my insincerity. It was all I could do to squeeze the platitudes out – my throat felt like a tied off vessel and I could feel the pressure building up behind the stricture; I doubted my ability to contain it. If I ended up screaming at the man like a banshee all would be lost. It would be everything he desired – it would be my undoing.
I managed to clear my throat and I expressed my surprise at seeing him at Greyswick.
‘Your mother asked me to come, Stella. Ever since receiving Lady Brightwell’s letter she’s been very concerned about you.’
‘Lady Brightwell’s letter?’ I blurted out, staring at the woman in disbelief. She shivered with triumph over her skilful coup de grâce.
‘She was rather taken aback by Madeleine returning unexpectedly, but the fact that she did so alone – leaving you here – struck her as very odd indeed, especially with Madeleine unable to offer any sensible explanation as to why. She was quite beside herself when she received Lady Brightwell’s note and so, contacted me. I managed to wheedle out of Madeleine the details of recent events. Your mother,’ he continued, tucking his hands behind his back in a most officious manner, ‘wants me to bring you back to Haverton.’
‘Oh, dear Miss Marcham,’ Miss Scott shuffled forward on the sofa, ‘we had no idea you had been so unwell – you poor child! Some rest at home will be just the thing. You’ve had so many crosses to bear, you must look after yourself now, my dear.’
‘But I can’t go home, not yet.’ This multifaceted attack put me on the defensive, and not in a way that could be construed as beneficial. Even to me my rebuttal sounded petulant. ‘There’s no reason for me to go home just yet, Dr Mayhew.’
‘I think there is, Stella. Madeleine is no longer here – there is therefore no need for you to stay, and I understand that your continued presence has become rather unsettling to the rest of the household.’
I couldn’t help but respond to the irony of it all, and the laughter that erupted from me had a tinge of mania to it – how could it not, knowing all I did? They found my presence unsettling!
‘Dr Mayhew,’ I informed him at last, ‘they are unsettled by what I have uncovered.’
There was a palpable frisson in the air. Lady Brightwell’s talon-like fingers contracted, anchoring her to the sofa. Beside her Miss Scott paled, bearing the startled look of a hare caught in a lamper’s beam.
It was Dr Mayhew who spoke, though I had expected a rejoinder from one of the women present. He scratched at his head.
‘Ah yes, Stella. Lady Brightwell has been telling me about your unhappy obsession with her late stepson.’
‘I might point out, Dr Mayhew, that Madeleine has also—’
He didn’t allow me to finish. A flare of irritation crossed his face and he held up his hand which, to my shame, brought me to a faltering stop. ‘Stella, Madeleine herself has told me the sad tale of the boy, and your shared conviction he haunts this house.’ The wet tutting that punctuated the statement indicated his exasperation. ‘Miss Scott was so kind as to show me the portrait of the boy. Don’t you see it, Stella? I saw it straight away. I understand why the child’s unfortunate history should have such a profound effect on you and your sister.’
His comment threw me off kilter. He waited for my confusion to embed before continuing.
‘He was the same age as Lydia when he died – the same golden locks, an angelic face, a tragic end …’ He swung back to Lady Brightwell. ‘The loss of their sister when they were all at such a tender age has had a long-lasting impact on these girls, Lady Brightwell. I fear we are still seeing its unfortunate repercussions.’
‘He’s not Lydia,’ I cried out, catching hold of the chair before me. ‘It’s not because of her—’
‘You have been unable to save the ones you love, Stella – trying to find some mystery that doesn’t exist to explain this young boy’s death won’t help you save him either. Don’t you see this pursuit of yours is as firmly entrenched in the present as it is the past? It is all intricately bound to the loss of Gerald – you must realise that?’
‘No, you are wrong, Dr Mayhew. Madeleine heard him too – and Hector and—’
‘Madeleine has her own reasons for being susceptible to this sad, sad story, Stella, you know that. And as for the rest, well, Lady Brightwell has been explaining this Mr Sheers’ theory for it all and I have to say, it seems the most likely explanation.’
‘But he doesn’t believe that any more!’ I was growing desperate. The walls were closing in on me. ‘Tristan has also experienced things now which have made him revise his first impressions—’
‘And where is Mr Sheers?’
‘He’s not here – he’s on
his way back from London.’
The snatched look Dr Mayhew exchanged with Lady Brightwell did not escape my notice.
‘Stella, I’ve already asked for your things to be packed. You and Annie will be returning with me this afternoon.’
Annie. ‘I won’t come,’ I announced, tightening my grip on the chair. ‘I’m not coming home yet, Dr Mayhew, no matter how much you might try and make me. We’re so close, you see, so close to discovering the truth, and we owe that to Lucien. The truth is what he wants, and he won’t rest until he has it. And until he rests, Madeleine will never have any peace in this house.’
‘Stella, Stella, Stella … Have you stopped to listen to yourself?’
The good doctor had undergone a marked transformation. Gone was the kindly cajoling; there was an underlying malice to his temper now. I had tested his patience, it seemed, and worn it thin. Too thin.
‘All this talk of ghosts and ghouls – can’t you see the absurdity of it all?’
It was a test. The answer to the question could clear or condemn. It was so tempting to acquiesce, but I would be betraying myself and all that I believed in. One of the characteristics Gerald had always cherished in me was my forthright self-belief, my unwavering convictions, and I wouldn’t waver now. Annie, Tristan and I were on the brink of discovery. It would be treachery to turn my back, to selfishly save my own skin.
‘I would have been the first to agree with you when I arrived at Greyswick, Dr Mayhew,’ I told him in as mild a manner as I could muster. I did not want confrontation for confrontation’s sake. I knew I had to do my best to appear rational and controlled – reasonable. ‘But since then I have experienced things that are inexplicable – and I have learnt things which are unforgiveable.’ I paused. ‘Have you not wondered why everyone is so keen to see the back of me?’
‘From what I’ve heard of your behaviour – and am now witnessing myself – I don’t think I need to ask,’ Dr Mayhew retorted, earning a ‘harrumph’ of approval from her ladyship.
‘Perhaps your energies would be better spent contemplating the behaviour of others within this house, Dr Mayhew.’ A thought occurred to me. ‘You’re a magistrate, aren’t you? Don’t you have a duty to justice? Or is that only when it suits you?’
‘Careful, Stella, you are in danger of overstepping the mark.’
‘How is trying to seek justice for a little boy pushed to his death “overstepping the mark”, Dr Mayhew?’ I left the allegation to ricochet around the room.
‘Stella, that is a fanciful, malicious – good God, a libellous – thing to say,’ he blustered, outraged at my audacity.
‘It is merely one of several scandals I have uncovered since my arrival, Doctor.’
‘Enough, Stella! I will not hear any more of this fanciful nonsense.’
‘It is not fanciful nonsense, Dr Mayhew. You can ask Mr Sheers when he returns, you can ask Annie now—’
‘Ask Annie Burrows?’ He spluttered her name with utter contempt, the thread veins in his cheek flaming with indignation. ‘Good God, why would I believe a word that came out of that miscreant’s mouth?’
‘She is hardly a miscreant.’
‘She is a malevolent troublemaker and has been since she was a child. Honestly, Stella, you surprise me. Are you telling me you lend credence to that girl? I know your parents feel some misplaced debt to her family, but if you have been gullible enough to swallow the stuff and nonsense that girl so wilfully fabricates—’
‘You malign her for no reason, Dr Mayhew.’
‘I have known Annie Burrows long enough to know what type of girl she is, Stella. I must confess I am most disappointed in you. All I can think is she has exerted some poisonous influence over you, taken advantage of your weakened state—’
‘My weakened state?’ I laughed at that. Here was the real absurdity: the doctor’s inability to see things as they were, to empathise with me in any way, shape or form. ‘Annie Burrows has not taken advantage of anyone, Dr Mayhew. She has never asked for anything—’
‘Stella, I hear from Lady Brightwell that the wretched girl stole from you and yet you refused to punish her.’
‘She didn’t steal from me, the theft was a frame-up – another attempt to get rid of us, this time because of what she’d seen – a dead baby in the cradle.’
‘Dear God, Stella.’ He rubbed his forehead with caricatured weariness, before chuckling, a charming twinkle in his eye. ‘Are we really up to two murdered children now? Dear me, Lady Brightwell, I do wonder what kind of house you’re running here.’
Miss Scott had the good grace to look uncomfortable. From her rictus smile and rigid posture, it was clear that my comments had struck a raw nerve in her at least, but Lady Brightwell was unmoved, and in an uncharacteristic display of humour, chortled with the doctor.
The jarring ridicule resonated through my skull until my head throbbed. I closed my eyes, trying to quell my broiling anger and resentment. But I could not.
‘Enough!’ The word shot from me like a single round. ‘I will not return home with you, Dr Mayhew, and nothing you can say or do will induce me to change my mind – not until my work here is done. Madeleine must be able to return to this house without any fear, so, yes … I must lay ghosts to rest. I apologise for your wasted trip. I will contact my mother directly to assure her I’m quite well, but Hector has given me leave to stay, and stay I shall.’
I pivoted round only to find Mrs Henge blocking my way. In no uncertain terms, I asked her to step aside.
‘I am not at liberty to do that, miss.’
I went to move round her, but she side-stepped to block me. Her eyes flared as she dared me to try and outwit her. I have not hated many people in my life but in that moment, I hated the housekeeper with vehemence. Animus flowed like scorching lava through my veins, and before I knew it, I thrust my snarling face towards her and demanded to know her part in the whole sordid affair.
Like peering into a mirror, the strength of that contempt reflected straight back at me, her pupils onyx gateways into the abyss of her soul. I shuddered and pulled back in alarm, shocked by the innate nefariousness I saw.
‘Come, Miss Marcham. The doctor wishes you to go with him.’
‘I will not go,’ I reiterated, backing away from her. I spun around to face Dr Mayhew. ‘I will not go with you. You cannot make me.’
I twisted between the two of them, aware they were both advancing upon me. I had to get out! I made to dart around Mrs Henge, but she was too fast for me. With speed that denied her age, she sprang sideways to block my path, her face alive with the thrill of it all.
‘Come, come, Miss Marcham, you should do as the good doctor asks, no one wants any fuss.’
‘Who are you to tell me what to do, Mrs Henge?’ I hissed. I was a trapped creature, preparing to fight for its survival. It was an ambush, I realised that now. I was never intended to walk out of this room except under duress. I wondered where Annie could be and whether she would come if I screamed her name. But then what could she, a mere maid, do in the face of Dr Mayhew, Lady Brightwell, even Mrs Henge? Tristan might have added some authority to my cause, but he wasn’t here. I realised the extent of my vulnerability.
‘You’re getting worked up, Stella, you need to calm yourself.’ Agitated, I whirled back to face Dr Mayhew who was moving closer now.
‘I am not.’ But my breaths were frantic. ‘You don’t understand all the facts, Dr Mayhew. What I’m saying is true, what Annie saw in that cradle – it’s all true. There was another baby in this house, another Brightwell boy—’
‘I think things have gone far enough, Doctor,’ Mrs Henge interjected. I spun back to glare at her. ‘Poor Miss Marcham is clearly unwell, it is for her own good.’
Before I could retort I felt a stinging pain, as something sharp plunged into the soft flesh at the back of my neck, penetrating deep into the tissue. I cried out in alarm, slapping at the site of the puncture wound, turning my head in time to see the good doctor pu
sh the contents of his syringe into me.
My head began to swim, my vision narrowing, drawing me into a tunnel edged with darkness. Mrs Henge’s stern features blurred before me, as Dr Mayhew’s voice became a distorted echo in my ear. I tried to speak, but my tongue, thick and cumbersome, was unable to form the words that oozed drunkenly around my brain. I couldn’t feel my legs.
Strong arms supported me as I sank to the ground. My head was lifted and something soft placed under it, while the rest of my bones butted against the floorboards. I wanted to call out for help – I knew I needed to, I must – but my voice was as paralysed as my useless body.
‘I have arranged for a private ambulance to transport us back to Haverton.’ Dr Mayhew’s words seeped through my befuddlement. ‘I asked them to be here at five, that’s only an hour. This should keep her quiet until then. Is the maid around, do you know? I’ll take her with me, of course. Lady Brightwell, I can only apologise on behalf of the family for what you’ve endured. I put it down to losing her young chap – it hit her terribly hard, you know – that and the pernicious influence of the Burrows girl. She’s a “bad ’un” as they say – a troublemaker to the core. I did advise Mrs Marcham against her employ, but there is a history there, you see …’
I was vaguely aware of the conversation continuing as Mrs Henge’s polished boots crisscrossed before my eyes. I drifted in my mind as they discussed what to do with me, where to put me until the ambulance arrived. The lady’s parlour was agreed upon – out of the way and lockable, should it prove necessary.
I saw the bottom edge of the door loom towards me, and I watched Mrs Henge’s black boots retreat through it. Dr Mayhew’s brown brogues, sheened to perfection, passed before me. I noticed a thread from the turn-up of his trouser trailing down, floating in the air as he moved. He and Lady Brightwell launched into an amiable discussion on the weather, while I lay draped across the floor like an animal pelt. A solitary tear toppled over the rim of my eye and trailed down my cheek.
A pair of stubby legs ran up to me through the open doorway, stopping just short of my face. I could see buckled black-patent shoes, and long white socks topped at the knee by the buttoned cuff of blue knickerbockers. My heart, sluggish until that moment, surged into life. I managed to move my lips to form a name, though I had no voice to utter it.
