by Alex Bell
Devil…
Hell…
Blood…
Murder…
Kill…
Kill…
Kill…
And there were other words, too. Language so unspeakably vile that my face went hot at the sight of them.
“God in heaven!” I muttered.
“Did you find what you were looking for?”
I looked up to see Redwing standing in the doorway watching me, an unreadable expression on his face.
“This is … obscene,” I said. “All of this is … it’s unnatural and wicked.” I closed my fists around the paper, screwing it up into balls and dropping them on the floor. “I thought you only wanted to speak to Vanessa?”
“Other voices are stronger than hers,” Redwing replied. “But, if we just persist, a professional medium like you is eventually bound to—”
“I’m not a professional medium, you fool!” I cried. “I’m a professional fraudster! An actress, a performance artist, an illusionist! The same is true for Mother!”
And then, without pausing to think about the wisdom of it, I proceeded to detail every single trick Mother and I had ever used. I explained exactly how we deceived our clients, making them believe we had spoken to their loved ones; I told him that we were actors playing a part and that neither one of us had ever glimpsed a single ghost, not even so much as a shadow in a mirror. I suppose some small part of me hoped that, if he knew we were fakes, perhaps those awful trance sessions might stop.
Throughout my tirade, Redwing simply gazed at me, his expression neutral. By the time I finally ran out of words, I was breathing hard.
For a moment there was just the sound of my panting.
Then Redwing said quietly, “You have deceived me, is that what you’re saying? That I have been tricked into a sham of a marriage by a pair of clever bitches whose only aim was to get their hands on my money and my estate?”
“It wasn’t the only aim,” I said hopelessly, already regretting what I’d done. “Mother would have been a good wife and I would have been a good stepdaughter to you if you had only permitted us to—”
“I see how it is perfectly,” Redwing cut me off. “Your mother practised an elaborate deception, worming her way into my home on the pretence of being able to help me establish contact with my dead daughter and yet somehow I am the one who is to blame. In your own mind, I think you honestly believe that I am the villain.”
Tears began to roll down my cheeks. I simply didn’t know what to say or do any more. Everything I tried just seemed to make the situation worse.
Redwing crossed the room in a few strides and suddenly his hand was round my throat, squeezing hard enough to cut off the air and choke me.
“Don’t waste your crocodile tears on me, my dear,” he said softly. “They will do you no good. And if you think your little confession is going to excuse you from future trance sessions then you are quite wrong. We will not stop. We will never stop until I have made contact with Vanessa.”
He released his hold and I sucked in air in a painful gasp, my throat burning, my heart filled with the most poisonous hatred for him.
“Speaking of which,” Redwing said, turning away from me and picking up his hawk-topped cane. “It is almost time to begin. Take your seat, please, Jemima.”
Still crying, still despising him, I sat down in my usual chair by the fire and our last session began.
Just a few hours later, I found myself standing in the gardens with the servants, watching Whiteladies burn to the ground, with no memory of how I’d got there or what had happened since I fell into the trance some hours before.
Chapter Twenty
Isle of Skye – January 1910
The scream was the most terrible sound I’d ever heard. I was out of bed, my bare feet smarting on the freezing boards, before I even understood what was happening. It was not just one girl screaming now, but several of them.
My first confused thought was that some madman had broken into the school. Some Jack the Ripper lunatic intent on slaughtering us all with a carving knife. I ran to the door, out into the corridor and straight to the dormitory.
One of the girls had already switched on the gaslight and a shocking scene lay before me.
There was no frenzied serial killer but there was blood. It was on the bedsheets, splattered in big smears across the white pillow; it was on the floorboards and it was on Martha’s nightgown, running in twin trails down her face – straight from the two needles that pierced each of her eyes, pinning them closed.
Nausea churned in my stomach at the sight.
Martha was slumped on the floor by her bed, making an anguished moaning sound. A few girls were clustered around her, although no one seemed to want to touch her. The remaining girls were in their beds, gripping their bedsheets. And Estella was standing silent and motionless on the other side of the room, a sewing kit hanging from her hand.
Miss Grayson burst in. I couldn’t believe that she’d paused to put on her wig. There was a time and a place for vanity, and this surely was not it.
“Everyone be silent!” she yelled. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Martha’s hurt,” I said, striding through the girls to kneel down on the floor next to her. The moment I said her name and touched her shoulder, she threw her arms round my neck and clung to me. Her entire body was trembling and she was practically choking on her sobs.
“What happened?” Miss Grayson rasped out.
“There was a Frozen Charlotte doll!” Martha gasped. “I woke up and … it was there … on the bed … looking at me. She had needles in her hands and I thought … I thought she wanted me to make another dress for her. But then … when I … when I … b-b-blinked … she … she stabbed me with them!”
“That is nonsense!” Miss Grayson said in a hoarse voice. “Utter nonsense! Girls! Speak up! Someone must have seen what happened.”
“It was Estella!” Bess cried, pointing at the other girl. “She had an argument with Martha tonight and then she attacked her!”
Everyone looked at Estella.
“I didn’t do it,” she whispered. “It wasn’t me. It was the doll.” She looked down at the sewing kit in her hand. “I tried to stop her but it was too late. It was too late.”
Miss Grayson flew at her, grabbing the girl by her collar and practically dragging her from the room.
“Wait here,” the schoolmistress said to me over her shoulder. “And, whatever you do, don’t let Martha remove those needles!”
I pulled a blanket from the nearby bed and wrapped Martha up in it, trying to keep her warm as best I could, although I knew well enough it was more than cold that made her tremble. Her hand kept coming up to claw at her eyes and I had to grab her wrists in the end.
“Martha, dear, I’m sorry, but you mustn’t,” I said.
“You might make it worse. Miss Grayson will send for the physician and he will know what to do.”
Miss Grayson returned soon enough, without Estella, and informed us that Henry had been sent on a horse to Dunvegan to fetch the physician. In the meantime, we would just have to wait. Miss Grayson sat herself down in a chair as far away from everyone as she could. She didn’t speak to Martha or attempt to touch her or reassure her in any way. I didn’t know what to say, either, so I simply held the trembling girl tight and hoped that the physical contact was somehow reassuring.
We seemed to wait an age in that room. Time stretched on and on. The girls cried and shivered in their beds. Martha clung to me, her breathing too loud and too fast.
Finally there was the sound of carriage wheels on the drive outside and, a moment later, men’s boots upon the stairs. Henry burst into the room, closely followed by the physician – a tall, thin man with an overly waxed moustache.
Martha was bundled away from me and taken downstairs by the physician and Miss Grayson. I wanted to go with them but Miss Grayson had instructed me to remain upstairs. Henry and I were left with the task of calmin
g the girls and persuading them to go to sleep. It wasn’t as difficult as I’d anticipated. The girls were frightened and upset but they were also exhausted. Soon enough they were tucked back in, and Henry and I tiptoed out into the corridor.
He immediately grabbed my hand, hurried us both into my bedroom and closed the door behind us. I expected him to bombard me with questions about what had happened to Martha but instead, the moment the door closed, he turned round and stared at me.
And that was when I realized. In my haste to get to the girls, I hadn’t paused to put on my dressing gown. I hadn’t covered up my arms. My scars were displayed for all the world to see. I wrapped my hands round myself but, of course, it was too late for that now.
Henry drew a deep breath. “Tell me who did this to you, Jemima,” he said. “Tell me at once.”
“Henry, really, it doesn’t matter any more,”
I tried.
“Doesn’t matter?” he replied, his voice low and harsh. “Doesn’t matter? How can you say that? It matters tremendously, in fact, because I am going to murder whoever’s responsible.”
“Don’t talk nonsense,” I said. “Even if you wanted to do something foolish, you can’t. Edward Redwing is responsible and he’s gone, as you know. Burned to death in the fire at Whiteladies.”
Henry ran both hands through his hair. “But why in God’s name?” he said. “Why would any man act in such a manner?”
“He was out of his mind,” I said softly.
As I said the words I could feel, once again, those fingers pressing into my neck, smell burning flesh as the red-hot tip of a cigarette was pressed against my skin and held there, hear Redwing’s mellow voice whisper in my ear, breathe in that dreadful scent of Macassar oil. I saw the fixed gaze of the Frozen Charlotte doll staring back at me, dead hands outstretched, while the hawk’s eyes burned their hot, ruby stare straight into my soul…
“Oh Henry, he was just completely out of his mind!”
Perhaps it was the shock of what had happened to Martha, or the lateness of the hour, or the pressure of having kept everything to myself for so long, or a combination of all of these things, but before I could stop myself, I started to cry.
Henry crossed the room, gathered me up in his arms and held me tight against his chest, stroking my hair.
“I’ve got you, Mim,” he murmured in my ear. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
When there were no tears left, I found myself grabbing his arm and begging him to stay.
“Please, Henry,” I said. “I can’t face being here on my own tonight, I really can’t. Please say you’ll stay?”
“My darling girl,” he replied, “I’ll be here with you for as long as you want me.”
I couldn’t help but give a raw sob of relief. Despite the outrageous impropriety, we slept in the same bed that night. Miss Grayson was unlikely to come bursting into my bedroom in the middle of the night but in that moment I wouldn’t even have cared if she’d discovered us and thrown me out. In fact, I would have been glad to leave this awful school.
The heat from Henry’s body warmed my back as he wrapped his arms round me and tucked his chin against my shoulder. I clutched his hand, holding it tight, and that’s how we fell asleep.
It was the first time in an age that I had felt warm and safe and loved.
Chapter Twenty-One
Isle of Skye – January 1910
The intimacy of having been wrapped up with Henry all night, coupled with the fact that he now knew the truth about my time at Whiteladies, made me feel terribly embarrassed the next morning. He didn’t behave any differently towards me, although I noticed a faint blush on his cheeks and I think we were both a little shocked at how rashly we had behaved.
When Henry returned to his cottage to feed Murphy, I went straight to the toy room. The door was still locked, and when I opened it and stepped inside, there was nothing amiss. The dolls lay innocently in their basket; the Whiteladies house was exactly as I had left it.
The Frozen Charlottes had been in a locked room all night. How could they possibly be responsible for what had happened to Martha?
I went downstairs and found Miss Grayson in her study. The large cabinet behind her was unlocked and I saw for the first time what was inside. Shelf after shelf was filled with dolls, but they weren’t like the Frozen Charlottes. These were bigger, with elaborate lace dresses, pretty painted features and long, flowing hair. There must have been thirty dolls there, all gazing out at me with their glass eyes. Their hair was all different styles and colours, from red ringlets to elaborate blond chignons.
Miss Grayson was seated at her desk with a brunette doll sat before her. To my astonishment, she was calmly and methodically brushing the doll’s hair. I cleared my throat, and the schoolmistress stopped brushing and glanced up. She looked like she hadn’t slept all night. There were dark shadows beneath her eyes and her wig was crooked on her head.
“What do you want?” she asked in a flat voice.
“Martha—” I began.
“Is blind,” Miss Grayson said shortly. “The physician cleaned and bandaged her eyes, but she’ll never see again.”
I didn’t know what to say. Absurdly I found myself thinking of what a talented artist she had been – those beautiful drawings she had created during Henry’s art classes.
“I have already sent Hannah to inform the police,” Miss Grayson said. “They should be here any moment to collect Estella.”
“But we don’t know that it was Estella—” I began.
“Of course it was Estella, you stupid girl!” Miss Grayson snapped. “You saw her with the sewing kit in her hand! We know she argued with Martha last night. She is a wicked child.”
“Where is Martha now?” I asked.
“Resting in bed,” Miss Grayson replied. “In the sick room where she can have some peace and quiet.”
“Have her family been informed?”
“A telegram will be sent as soon as the post office opens.”
“And what about Estella?”
“She’s in Solitary.”
“Solitary?” I repeated, aghast. “My God, you can’t be serious! It’s freezing outside!”
“I’m quite aware of that, Miss Black.” Miss Grayson looked up and fixed me with a glare. “I must ask you to please stop bothering me with these endless questions. Estella is none of your concern. None of the girls are. Now, as you can see, I am currently occupied here, so please go and tend to your duties.”
I left her to her dolls. As I made my way to the cloakroom, I couldn’t help remembering what Estella had said about Miss Grayson confiscating the toys so she could play with them herself. Suddenly it didn’t seem quite so unlikely, although I never would have thought the old shrew would be the type to play with dolls.
I threw on my cloak and boots and hurried out to the little hut on the edge of the grounds. It was a ramshackle thing, the roof covered in snow and the wooden door fastened shut with a padlock.
I banged on the door with my fist. “Estella!” I called. “Are you all right?”
To my dismay, there was no answer. I peered through a gap in one of the boards and saw a small, bare room with only chinks of light shining through the gaps. There was nothing inside except for a metal bucket in one corner. And there was Estella, curled up in the middle of the floor with her back to me, wearing nothing but her thin nightdress. The wounds on her back from yesterday’s flogging must have re-opened because the white material was bloodstained.
“Oh my God!” I said under my breath. I looked around, searching for help, but there was no one nearby and Henry’s cottage was on the other side of the school. I was torn, wanting to run and fetch him but hating the thought of leaving Estella lying on the frozen floorboards like that.
I threw my shoulder against the wooden door with all the force I could. It made a groaning sound and a few pieces splintered off but it remained locked tight. I peered through the gap in the planks again, expecting to see Estell
a where she’d been before, but there was no sign of her. For a moment I thought the shed was empty, that she had managed to get out somehow.
Then I saw her standing motionless in the corner of the shed, facing the wall, talking to someone who wasn’t there.
“Let’s play a game,” she was saying, over and over again. “Let’s play a game, let’s play a game, let’s play a game…”
A second voice seemed to come from the shed – a thin, high-pitched tone that must have been put on by Estella herself, for there was no one else in there.
“Yes, yes, yes! Let’s play the fingernails game!”
Estella groaned, a low moaning sound in the back of her throat. “We already played that game,” she said with a dry sob. “I don’t want to play that game any more!”
“Estella!” I called through the gap. “Who are you talking to?”
She remained facing the wall with her head bent, her long hair hanging down in curtains past her face. But although Estella stayed motionless, a Frozen Charlotte doll suddenly popped up over her shoulder, its little china head pointed towards me, its painted eyes seeming to stare straight into mine.
There was a high-pitched giggle and I knew it must have come from Estella, but it seemed as if it had come from the doll.
“Hello, Mother! Do you want to play a game? The first one to bite off all their fingernails wins! Ready, set, go!”
At that moment a police motorcar pulled into the drive. Frantically I waved it down and before long two burly constables were tackling the door. They quickly forced it open and I pushed past them to get to Estella, gripping her shivering shoulders and turning her round to face me. She clutched the Frozen Charlotte in a bloody hand and I gasped as I saw that every single one of her fingernails was gone. They looked as if they’d been ripped off and the blood smears on Estella’s chin, coupled with what she’d just said, made me realize she must have bitten them off herself. When I looked down I saw that the bloody fingernails lay on the floor around us. Blood ran down Estella’s fingers, and I winced at the sight of the delicate, pink, exposed skin where her nails had been.
