Charlotte Says

by Alex Bell

  Those two words, Charlotte says, hit me like a slap in the face and for a moment I was speechless. Henry hurried forwards to help Violet to her feet and I grabbed Olivia by the arm, turning her round to face me.

  “Olivia!” I said sharply. “You do not speak to other girls like that!”

  She was usually such a well-behaved little thing. I had never seen her act in such a way before.

  “I don’t know what could have got into you!” I said. “If Miss Grayson had heard you just then you would have been punished severely – probably have spent an entire day in Solitary.”

  I had since learned that the ‘Solitary’ I had seen written down in the Punishment Book was a reference to a little hut that stood in the school grounds. Particularly naughty pupils were sometimes locked in there to contemplate their wickedness. During that time, they were not allowed to see or speak to anyone, there were no toilet facilities and they were denied food. I’d heard the girls talking about Solitary with a keen sense of dread, due to the fact that Estella had become ill and almost died after an extended spell in there last summer, apparently for telling a particularly spectacular lie, although I wasn’t too sure of the details. No doubt this was why she looked pale and sickly even now.

  Startled by my harsh tone, Olivia burst into tears and said, “I’m sorry, miss. It’s just that Charlotte said—”

  “Do not blame your behaviour on dolls,” I said. I took the Frozen Charlotte from her and put it into my own pocket. “If you can’t play nicely with them then they’ll be taken away. Now, apologize to Violet this instant.”

  Olivia turned to the other girl. “Sorry, Violet,” she mumbled.

  “Life’s too short to squabble with friends, you two,” Henry said cheerfully. He dug in his coat pocket and gave each of the girls a sticky toffee.

  “How about you, Mim?” he asked, falling back into step beside me and offering me a sweet.

  I took the toffee and, as our fingers touched, I felt a shiver run through me. Part of me still shrank from physical contact and yet some other part of me longed to take Henry’s hand in mine.

  “So this parcel, then,” he said. “Why do you—?”

  I shook my head. “Never mind,” I said brusquely. “Forget I said anything.”

  We were almost at the church now and I hoped he would let the matter drop. I should not have said anything in the first place.

  He was silent for a moment before brushing his fingers lightly against my sleeve. “I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding, Mim,” he said. “No one could ever wish you ill. You’re the best person I know.”

  I shook my head and pushed his hand away. “I’m sorry, Henry, but you don’t really know me any more. If you did, then you wouldn’t say a thing like that.”

  Henry tightened his grip on my sleeve to stop me on the path.

  “Jemima—” he began, looking troubled.

  I pulled my arm free. “Please forget I said anything. I’m sure you’re quite right and the dolls were meant as a gift.”

  We’d arrived at the church and I walked in with the girls before Henry could say anything further. I heard him say my name and try to follow but a verger spotted Murphy and stopped him at the door. Henry must have momentarily forgotten that dogs were not allowed in the church and went to tie Murphy up outside.

  Meanwhile I took my place in the pews and prepared to worship a god I no longer believed in.

  No one could ever wish you ill… Henry’s words echoed in my head and I dug my nails into my palms. It was a sickening thing to have someone hate you so much that they physically wished to hurt you but unfortunately it was a sensation I was all too familiar with.

  I kept my eyes fixed on the lectern in front of me and tried to force my mind to remain in the present moment. If I didn’t think about Whiteladies then perhaps it might be almost as if it had never happened.

  Chapter Seven

  Whiteladies – Eighteen months earlier

  I peered out of the carriage window and marvelled at the multitude of glorious white towers and turrets that made up the eighteenth-century building in front of us. It looked more like a castle than a home. The two chestnut horses came to a stop at the end of the drive and Mother gave me one of her sudden grins.

  “Ready to put on a show, darling?” she said.

  I smiled back at her. “Lead the way.”

  We stepped out into a bright summer’s day that immediately made me feel rather uncomfortable in my grey velvet outfit. Mother insisted on these gowns whenever we visited a house as mediums. Our tailored dresses and matching coats were designed to resemble the most fashionable garments from Paris although they had, in fact, been made in a London back room by Mrs Collins. Mother had picked a shade called ‘ashes of roses’, which she felt struck just the right tone for a séance. She’d even given up her favoured floral bonnets in order to sport a more impressive wide-brimmed hat, complete with a plume of dark ostrich feathers.

  I wore a similar hat, although I longed to remove it so that I might feel the sun on my face. Before I could think of doing so, the front door swung open and a middle-aged man came striding out. He didn’t look like a servant so I thought this must be Edward Redwing.

  As with all her clients, Mother had done her background research the moment he contacted us, and we knew him to be one of the newest members of the Ghost Club – the prestigious paranormal research organization founded in London almost fifty years ago, and graced by the likes of writers such as Charles Dickens and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

  We also knew that Edward Redwing had been particularly active in London’s spiritualist scene ever since his six-year-old daughter, Vanessa, died in a horse-riding accident a couple of months earlier.

  As the man hurried down the steps towards us, I saw that he wore a perfectly tailored grey suit the exact same shade as his eyes and carried an ornate silver-topped cane. To my surprise, he was glaring quite ferociously.

  “Out!” he cried, brandishing the cane. For a shocked moment I thought he meant us, but then I realized he was gesturing at the carriage driver. “Get them out!” he said. “I’ll have no horses at Whiteladies! Damn your eyes, didn’t you see the sign at the gate?”

  The driver hastily gathered up the reins and sent the horses trotting back down the drive. Composing himself with an obvious effort, Redwing turned to us and said, in a voice that was absolutely, almost unnervingly, calm, “I apologize for my outburst, ladies, as well as my language. I’m afraid that ever since my daughter’s death, I have not been able to tolerate the sight of horses. It’s … become almost a sort of phobia, you see.”

  I noticed his right hand shaking slightly as he smoothed back a loose strand of hair, while his left gripped his cane so tightly that his knuckles were white. The cane was an elaborate object made from rosewood, with a solid silver topper in the shape of a vicious-looking hawk that had gleaming, blood-red rubies for eyes.

  “My behaviour is inexcusable,” Redwing went on.

  “I hope you can forgive me.”

  He had quite the most beautiful voice I’d ever heard – deep and mellow and somehow magnetic.

  “My dear Mr Redwing, there is nothing to forgive,” my mother said, taking charge of the situation. “The fault was ours entirely. And, of course, we perfectly understand how unspeakable it is to be bereaved in such a way as you have been.”

  “Unspeakable.” Redwing murmured the word back at her, a startled look in his grey eyes. “Yes. You are right. Do you know, that is the first time anyone has used a word even remotely suitable to describe the … the magnitude of what I have lost.” He shook himself and said, “Allow me to welcome you properly to Whiteladies. I am Edward Redwing, and you must be the renowned medium Elizabeth Black and this is your charming daughter. Jacqueline, was it?”

  “Jemima, sir,” I said, bobbing him a curtsy.

  “Delighted to make your acquaintance, miss,” Redwing said with a bow. “Please do come in. Tea will be served in the drawing room and t
hen we will retire to the parlour, which has been prepared in accordance with your instructions for tonight’s séance.”

  We followed Redwing up the steps into the entranceway of Whiteladies – a vast, white marble portrait hall dominated by an ornate double staircase that curled up and around to the first floor. A magnificent stained-glass window let in plenty of light from above and I saw that there were multiple hawks depicted in the glass – wings spread, talons extended, red eyes gleaming. Two more hawks, carved from dark, shining wood, sat atop the balustrades at the foot of the staircase. Almost every inch of wall space was taken up with portraits. And they all depicted the same person: Vanessa Redwing.

  She’d been a pretty girl, with a tumble of curls as dark as her father’s, blue eyes and an engaging smile. Along with the usual formal portraits, there were other paintings that showed her sitting in the garden or at play in the nursery. They were beautiful oil paintings and there had clearly been no expense spared in their commission but, even so, there was something a little disconcerting about having a dead girl gazing down at you from every angle. There weren’t even any paintings of the late Mrs Redwing, who we knew to have died in childbirth. The hall was a shrine to little Vanessa.

  “This, of course, is my daughter,” Redwing said, gesturing at the paintings. “The reason I invited you here. And why I want to hold a séance at Whiteladies.” He looked at my mother with an almost painful expression of desperation. “Vanessa is here in the house, madam, I’m certain of it. Just yesterday I was sure I heard her singing in the garden. And last night I heard her running up and down the stairs well into the early hours. She was just outside my door. The servants have sensed her, too. She’s often in the nursery, playing with her toys. The teddy bears move around in there from one day to the next.” He straightened his shoulders a little and said, “I consider myself a steady sort of man, Mrs Black, and please believe me when I say I am not given to wild flights of fancy or imagining things as I wish them to be. My daughter’s spirit haunts this house and nothing will convince me otherwise.”

  “You’ve come to the right person, sir,” my mother assured him, easily slipping into her comforting tone. “Spirits often linger after their passing so I would not be at all surprised if your daughter is still here. With our assistance, you are sure to break through the veil that separates our world from theirs.”

  I hardly listened to my mother’s speech. I’d heard it, in one form or another, many times before.

  “Do you have something of Vanessa’s?” Mother asked. “As I said in my letter, it’ll make it easier for us to establish a connection with her.”

  “I have just the thing,” Redwing said. He set his cane down against the wall and then produced a white porcelain doll from his coat pocket.

  Completely white from head to toe, I immediately recognized it as a Frozen Charlotte doll. I’d had one myself when I’d been younger and remembered the tale that went with it, of a silly, vain girl named Charlotte, who froze to death because she refused to wrap up warm on a carriage ride to a ball with her fiancé. It was a freezing New Year’s Eve and she was a corpse by the time the carriage arrived at its destination.

  Let that be a lesson to you, Jemima, my mother had said laughingly as she gave me the doll. Don’t allow yourself to become vain and conceited or you’ll end up like Charlotte here…

  I looked at the Frozen Charlotte in Redwing’s hand and it struck me as appropriate that he’d chosen a dead toy as a way of communicating with his deceased daughter.

  “Vanessa loved those dolls,” he said. “She had a whole collection of them.” He swallowed hard. “She was dreadfully shy, you see, dreadfully timid, a reserved sort of girl. I believe she enjoyed spending time with … with horses more than she enjoyed being around people.” His expression twisted suddenly as he was gripped by a fresh spasm of grief. “She said she felt most comfortable with her own horse, Blackie. That he understood her and made her feel safe. I cannot bear the irony of it!” He took a deep breath and went on. “People made her tongue-tied and awkward. So she would use the dolls to talk to guests, servants, even me sometimes. Charlotte says she is tired and would like to go to bed. Charlotte says the thunder is too loud and hurts her ears. Charlotte says she doesn’t want to go out in the rain. That sort of thing.”

  Mother took the doll from Redwing to examine it, then nodded her approval before handing it back.

  “You’ll speak to your daughter again tonight, Mr Redwing,” she said. “I’m quite sure of it.”

  Chapter Eight

  Isle of Skye – January 1910

  The service came to an end and we filed out into the churchyard. To my relief, Henry was unusually quiet as we walked back and did not bring up the subject of the dolls again. When we arrived at the school, he returned to his cottage and I followed Miss Grayson inside. I was just removing my cloak when the schoolmistress said to me carelessly, “Another parcel arrived for you yesterday, Miss Black. I asked the servants to deliver it to your room this morning.”

  I didn’t waste time asking why on earth she’d waited until now and hadn’t had it sent to my room yesterday. Instead I made straight for the stairs, desperate to know what this second parcel might contain.

  When I opened the door to my room I saw that the second box was similar in size to the first and addressed to me in what looked like the same spiked handwriting. When I ripped open the brown paper, I found that there was a letter inside.

  The parcel was from Edward Redwing’s solicitors, Messrs Goadsby, Grimes and Scott. The writer of this particular letter was Mr Vincent Grimes, and in it he expressed his condolences for my loss and explained that they were in the process of packing up the few items that had survived the fire at Whiteladies, including this dolls’ house which was, miraculously, completely unharmed.

  Relief washed over me. The solicitors must have sent the box of dolls, too, and simply neglected to include a covering letter. How foolish of me to think that Redwing had sent them. The man was dead after all and ghosts did not send post – one did not have to be a medium to know that. I picked up the brown paper and re-examined the handwriting. The penmanship was a little spiky, to be sure, but I saw now that it was quite different from Redwing’s script. In my panic, I was seeing similarities where there were none.

  Even so, the sight of the dolls’ house sent a shiver through me. It had been Vanessa’s and was an exact replica of Whiteladies itself, complete with the elegant white towers that had given the house its name. Edward Redwing had had it specially commissioned for one of Vanessa’s birthdays and it was an exquisite work of art. Even the interior décor and furniture of the various rooms mirrored those of the real house.

  The entire front swung open to reveal replica carpets, minute brass candlesticks and a miniature grandfather clock that actually ticked, tocked and chimed out the hours, although I noticed that it appeared to have stopped on six o’clock which, oddly, was the exact hour I heard chiming in my nightmare.

  The dolls’ house was installed with battery-powered electric lighting that could be controlled by switches at the back of the house. Tiny versions of the oil paintings hung in the portrait hall and the doorknobs were the same, too, including the one on the study door. It was stamped with the Redwing coat of arms, with its two hawks on either side of the shield.

  I peered at that door now, thinking of my dream again. Something had happened in that room. Something terrible.

  Charlotte says don’t open the door…

  I took the doll that I’d confiscated from Olivia out of my pocket and placed her in the living room. The Frozen Charlottes weren’t really designed for a dolls’ house. The fact that her limbs weren’t jointed made it impossible to sit her down on the chaise longue and, when I tried to lean her against it, she simply slid to the floor and lay stiffly on the rug, her hands held up in a fixed position in front of her.

  Her movement upset the nearby umbrella stand, sending Redwing’s replica cane, with the silver hawk top, rollin
g out across the floor. Unlike the real cane, this one didn’t have rubies for eyes but glass gemstones instead.

  Automatically I reached out to pick it up but, when my fingers were inches away, I stopped dead. I simply could not touch it. It was the same instinctive aversion one might have to stroking a wasp.

  I righted the umbrella stand and left the cane where it was on the floor. Then I shut the front of the house with a snap and immediately sat down to write a letter to the solicitors, thanking them for the Frozen Charlottes and dolls’ house but requesting that they sell off everything else at auction. I had no wish to have anything that had come out of that house.

  I also asked in my letter about where the toy chest with my name on it had come from. I could not remember ever seeing it before and it was an irritating unanswered question that niggled away at the back of my mind. But then I hit on what appeared to me to be an explanation. The solicitor who had sent the dolls must have seen my school address and mistakenly believed me to be an orphaned child – a pupil at the school rather than a mistress. Feeling sorry for me, they must have had the toy chest made up as an act of charity.

  Feeling pleased with this explanation, I folded the letter and sealed up the envelope, just as there was a knock at my door. I went over to answer it, only to find Henry on the other side.

  “You shouldn’t be up here,” I said, glancing down the corridor. “Miss Grayson will be most irate if she sees you.”

  “Miss Grayson can go to the devil,” Henry said as he neatly stepped past me, into the room. “I absolutely must speak to you and it cannot wait. I have delayed this conversation for far too long already.”

  I closed the door and turned to face him warily. “Is something wrong?” I asked.

  “Undoubtedly,” Henry replied. “Something has been quite wrong since the moment you arrived here. At first I thought it was because you had been through a great ordeal with the fire. Then, if you’ll forgive my self-absorption, I thought perhaps it might be because your feelings for me had changed and you didn’t know how to break it to me. But now I see that it is more than that. Something has happened. Something is wrong, and I will not move from this spot until you have told me what it is and how I can help you.”