The Silent Companions

by Laura Purcell

  He kept saying that. Repetition only made it sound false. Presumably, what he really wanted was to establish his career by solving her case.

  But even if she did not trust him, he was right about one thing: there must be a statement. However painful, she had to press on and remember the rest, or she might end up dangling from the end of a noose.

  The gallows shouldn’t scare her. God knew there was little enough left to live for. But it was instinct, she supposed, burrowed deep within her, fighting like a feral animal. She did not want to die – only to sleep, safe, here. Cocooned by white walls and drugs.

  Splinters of gold flickered before her eyes. His glasses; he was leaning close, peering into her face. ‘You may not remember everything yet, but I am sure we can do it between us – wake the part of your mind that lies dormant.’

  She shifted away from him, making the bed creak. Putting the chalk against the slate, she began to write awkwardly. Squeak, squeak. That was her voice now, it seemed: a high, abrasive sound, devoid of words.

  Where was the fire?

  Dr Shepherd’s eyebrows shot up. ‘You do not recall the fire? Your injury?’

  Vague images floated back. She remembered a thousand insects of pain gnawing at her back. An odd impression of nurses, medicinal scents. All of it was too far down – she had layers and layers to peel back before she could reach it clearly.

  Placing one hand on her shoulder, Dr Shepherd took the slate from her fingers. She thought, for an instant, that he was going to hold her hand. But then she realised he was showing her: showing her the shining, marbled skin at her wrist. Gently, he folded back the coarse sleeve of her gown. Pink patches welled up around her elbow, misshapen, wrinkled like old fruit. Scars burnt so deep they would never be erased. Yes, she saw it now. They were burns. How had she not realised before?

  ‘This,’ he said, laying her hand back down, ‘this photograph was taken a few weeks ago. Do you recall?’

  She recalled the flash and the smoke, the way they had seemed to burst inside her head. But when he slid the photograph onto her lap, the face looking back was a stranger. It was a woman – at least, the striped gown and kerchief tied around the neck seemed to suggest it was a woman – but her hair was stubby, growing in tufts from a mottled scalp. Dark, bumpy skin stretched over her cheeks. One eye sagged at the lower lid.

  She saw her own name written underneath.

  Elisabeth Bainbridge. Detained on suspicion of arson.

  THE BRIDGE, 1865

  Elsie jerked upright at a knock on the door, bemused by her surroundings. The grey afternoon had deepened into the charcoal of an autumn evening. The fire burnt low in the grate. Only a single candle flickered on the dressing table, a winding sheet of hard wax down its side. Memory lurched back: she was stuck in the country – and Rupert was dead.

  The knock came again. She reached for her lace gloves and pulled them on. ‘Enter,’ she croaked. Her mouth tasted stale. How long had she been asleep?

  The door creaked open. Metal clattered against crockery and a short young woman, perhaps about eighteen years of age, edged across the threshold carrying a tray.

  ‘Ma’am.’ She placed the tray on the dressing table, fired up the gas lamp and lit it using the candle.

  Elsie blinked. Surely it was a trick of her eyes – was this really her housemaid? She was filthy from the kitchen, soot streaking her coarse apron. Her face was not altogether plain; she had long lashes and thick, rosy lips that would have been pleasing were they not quirked in an impertinent expression. She wore no cap. Her dark hair was parted down the middle in a severe fashion, then looped behind her ears into a knot at the back of her head.

  Did such a creature pass for a housemaid in this part of the country? If Elsie had known this, she would not have worried about her own appearance earlier.

  ‘Ma’am,’ the girl said again. Belatedly, she bobbed an awkward curtsy. The tray rattled. ‘Mr Livingstone said you might be hungry.’

  ‘Oh.’ She could not say if that were true: the combination of smells arising from the tray left her ravenous and nauseated in equal measures. ‘Yes. That was very kind of him. I will take the tray here.’ She propped a bolster behind her back.

  The girl came forward. She did not have the careful gait of the servants in London; her bold stride jogged the bowl and sent soup trickling over the rim. Depositing the tray on Elsie’s legs with a thunk, she stepped back and bent her knees in another curtsy.

  Elsie didn’t know whether to be offended or amused. The girl was clearly a bumpkin. ‘And you are . . .?’

  ‘Mabel Cousins. The maid.’ She had an odd voice; a blend between a cockney twang and a country drawl. ‘Ma’am.’

  It occurred to Elsie that perhaps Mabel was not usually permitted above stairs. They may have grown desperate for a pair of hands and sent anyone. From the way she eyed the pile of Elsie’s clothes on the floor and the lace collar of her nightgown, you would think she had never seen anything so costly in her life. ‘Are you the housemaid? The kitchen-maid?’

  Mabel shrugged. ‘Just the maid. Me and Helen. Tain’t no others.’

  ‘Well then, that makes you the maid-of-all-work.’

  ‘If you say so. Ma’am.’

  Elsie adjusted the tray on her lap. Steam rose from the surface of a yellow-brown soup flecked with herbs. Next to it sat a dish of broiled beef and a cream-coloured, lumpy substance that looked like chicken fricassee. She was hungry, but the idea of food turned her stomach. Grimacing, she picked up a spoon and plunged it into the soup.

  She was surprised to see Mabel still standing there. What on earth was she waiting for? ‘You may go, Mabel. I don’t require anything else.’

  ‘Oh.’ At least she had the grace to blush. Wiping her hands on her apron, she gave another hopeless curtsy. ‘Sorry. Ma’am. The Bridge ain’t had no mistress for nigh on forty years. We ain’t used to it.’

  Elsie lowered her spoon and let the soup slide back into the bowl. ‘Really? That long? How very strange. I wonder why?’

  ‘There were a bunch of servants what died, I think. In the old days. Put the family off living here. I heard talk in the village – something about a skeleton they dug up in King George’s time. A skeleton in the garden! Imagine that!’

  Really, there was so much dead in that garden, it did not come as much of a surprise.

  ‘Indeed! You grew up in the village of Fayford, I suppose?’

  Mabel’s crack of laughter made her jump. The maid threw back her head like a common woman at a music theatre.

  This would not do – it would not do at all. ‘Do I amuse you, Mabel?’ she snapped.

  ‘Lord bless you, ma’am.’ Mabel wiped an eye with the edge of her apron. ‘No one from the village works here.’

  ‘And why might that be?’

  ‘They’re scared of the place. Gives ’em the morbs.’

  Weight settled around her neck. Superstition? Premonition? Whatever it was, she did not want Mabel to see it. ‘Well, that seems very foolish. It was only a skeleton. There is nothing to be afraid of, is there?’ Mabel shrugged. ‘That will be all, Mabel.’

  ‘Very good, ma’am.’ Without a curtsy she turned, extinguished the lamp and strode out of the door. She didn’t bother to close it behind her.

  ‘Mabel!’ Elsie called. ‘You turned off the light by mistake, I cannot see to . . .’

  But she could already hear Mabel’s flat feet thudding down the stairs.

  Nobody came to close the door or remove the food. Despairing, Elsie placed her untouched dinner tray on the floor and dropped back against the pillows.

  When she awoke, the room was as black as a weeping veil. The fire had expired, leaving the air chill. The taint of that damned soup still hung in the air, making her stomach writhe. How could the maid just leave it there to fester and grow foul? She would have to speak with the housekeeper in the morning.

  It was then that she heard it: a low rasp, like a saw against wood. She went rigid.


  Had she really heard that? The senses could play tricks in the dark. But then it came again. Hiss.

  She did not want to deal with another problem tonight. Surely if she kept wrapped up with her eyes shut, the noise would go away? Hiss, hiss. A rhythmic, abrasive sound. Hiss hiss, hiss hiss. What was it?

  She pulled the cover up over her ear until it muffled the noise. At last, it stopped. Her head drooped with the weight of exhaustion. It was probably some foolish nonsense; animals in the woods. She would not recognise their sounds – she had always slept in a town. It was silent now, and she could go back to sleep . . .

  Hiss, hiss. She started up, every inch of her electrified. Hiss. Teeth against wood. Scraping.

  Blindly, she groped under the pillow for her matchbox. It was not there. Of course it was not there, she hadn’t unpacked yet. Her hand felt empty, vulnerable, without the box. She had to be careful, she mustn’t spiral into panic.

  Half falling from the bed, she fumbled in the dark for a gas lever, a tinderbox, anything. Her fingers only met hard pools of wax where the candle had melted. Hiss, hiss.

  The darkness was absolute – her eyes refused to adjust. It wasn’t like London; there were no streetlamps outside. She was forced to inch along, feeling her way forwards. The leg of the dressing table, a round, springy shape – a hoop of her crinoline. She manoeuvred around it, ears tensed for the sound. The very stillness felt heavy – charged, as if it were waiting.

  She placed her hand down and felt it sink into something. She recoiled and cried out. There was a crash and liquid seeped through her nightgown. The odours of chicken and beef announced she had crawled straight into her dinner tray.

  Hiss, hiss. Elsie flung herself away from the tray. Black, nothing but black before her eyes. How could she get out of this room?

  Finally, she made out a shade of grey. She crawled towards it and felt a solid surface. The door. Struggling to her feet, she groped for the handle and pulled the door open.

  It was brighter in the corridor. She took a few steps out, her feet sinking in the dusty carpet. Little clouds floated up as she moved.

  There was nothing to suggest what had made the noise. Everything was still. Moonlight fell through the lantern tower in silver bars and the marble busts glowed.

  Hiss, hiss. Elsie headed in the direction of the sound. She had to stop it – she would never sleep with that racket. Hiss, hiss. It came faster, frantic. Her feet matched its pace as they turned past the gallery, towards the stairs. She was certain: it was coming from above.

  The steps led to a narrow landing with whitewashed walls. The top floor of the house, traditionally the domain of servants. She followed the sound down a corridor, past the lantern tower, until the beacon of moonlight faded to a muted glow. Soft flooring gave way to cold tiles underfoot. She shivered, wishing she had brought a wrap or a blanket with her. She felt small, exposed in cotton and lace.

  She stopped to rest and get her bearings. Up ahead, a faint yellow circle stained the wall.

  Hiss, hiss. The noise was close. She put one foot forward – and felt something brush her leg.

  ‘Damn it!’ she cried out. She reeled, nearly losing her balance. ‘Damn, damn.’

  Tiny clicks sounded on the tiles. She did not dare to look down and see what made them.

  The rasping, sawing noise was everywhere around her, like the voice of God. And just below it, a steady beat. Footsteps.

  A yellow orb floated into the darkness, drifting towards her.

  Elsie braced herself, hardly knowing what she expected.

  The orb was coming closer. The figure of a woman loomed up behind it, her shadow stretched along the tiles at her heels. She saw Elsie, gasped – and they were plunged into darkness once more.

  Hiss, hiss. Again something sleek and warm swept against her calf. This time Elsie cried out.

  ‘Mrs Bainbridge?’ There was a sound like fabric ripping, then the flare of a match. A woman’s face appeared in a flickering halo. She was well past middle-age with wrinkles puckering her skin. ‘Bless me! Is that you, Mrs Bainbridge, up at this hour? You gave me a fright. I blew my candle right out.’

  Elsie’s lips flapped, trying to find purchase. ‘I came . . . The sound . . .’ As she spoke, it started up again, that terrible hiss, hiss.

  The woman nodded. Her eyes were liquid and jaundiced in the candlelight, as if her irises were swimming in honey. ‘I’ll show you the problem, madam. Please follow me.’

  She turned, taking the candle with her. The gloom was all the more fearsome after a moment of illumination. In her tired fancy Elsie imagined a second pair of footsteps, padding behind her.

  ‘I am the housekeeper here, Mrs Bainbridge. My name is Edna Holt. I had hoped to meet you under more traditional circumstances, but it can’t be helped.’ Her voice was gentle and respectful, without the awful drawl of Mabel’s speech. Elsie followed the sound of it, a rope tethering her to a world of reality and servants rather than the phantasmagoria that raged inside her imagination. ‘I trust you are a little better now, madam? I heard you were unwell.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, all I needed was sleep. But then—’ The rasping noise cut her off. It hissed and scratched as Mrs Holt stopped at the end of the corridor beside a case of wooden stairs.

  What could it be? The circular saw in the factory made a sound vaguely similar, but it was rapid, more staccato. This was drawn out. Like a slow, slow rip.

  Something glided over her feet, tickling her legs as it passed. She gasped. A small, dark shape moved up the steps ahead. ‘Mrs Holt! Do you not see it?’ Two glowing slits of green materialised beside the door at the top of the stairs. Elsie’s breath locked in her throat. ‘God have mercy.’

  ‘I know,’ Mrs Holt said kindly. But she was not looking at Elsie – her eyes were fixed on the door. ‘I know, Jasper. Come down.’

  Shapes fell into place – Elsie saw a little black cat, loping back down the stairs to Mrs Holt’s side. A cat. She had never felt so foolish.

  ‘I think it must be rats, madam. Or possibly squirrels. Something with gnawing teeth. They drive poor Jasper here distracted.’

  The cat paced a protective circle around them, muttering in the depths of his throat. His coat and tail swished against their skirts.

  ‘Well,’ Elsie said, regaining the use of her voice, ‘we must get a man up there to look. A nest is soon cleared out.’

  ‘Ah, madam, but that’s the problem.’ With her spare hand, Mrs Holt pulled a bunch of keys from her belt and held them up. ‘The garret was closed up years ago, before my time here. None of these fit the lock.’

  ‘You mean to tell me there is no way of gaining access?’ The housekeeper shook her head. ‘Then someone must take an axe to the door. I cannot allow these creatures to nest unmolested. Think what they might do to the fabric of the building! Why, the whole place could fall down around our ears.’

  The candle danced beneath her breath. She could not make out Mrs Holt’s expression. ‘Don’t upset yourself, madam. They can’t have wreaked much havoc. I’ve only heard them the past few weeks. Only, really, since the master came down.’

  They both grew still. Elsie was suddenly aware of the body, three floors below – maybe beneath the very spot where her feet arched away from the cold tiles. She hugged herself. ‘And what did Mr Bainbridge say about the matter?’

  ‘Much the same as you, madam. He was going to write to Torbury St Jude for a man . . . I don’t know if he ever did.’

  All the unsent letters, the unspoken words. It was as if Rupert had left the party in the middle of a dance. She ached with the need for him to come and make everything simple, to remove the burden from her shoulders.

  ‘Well, Mrs Holt, I will check his library in the morning and see what I find. If I have no luck, I will write myself.’

  The housekeeper paused. When her voice came it was infinitely softer; a verbal caress. ‘Very good, madam. Now I had better be lighting you back to bed. Tomorrow will be a long and weary day, hea
ven knows.’

  Elsie wondered for a moment what she meant. Then realisation burst upon her: they had only been waiting for her arrival. Tomorrow, they would bury Rupert.

  Her knees sagged. Mrs Holt’s spare hand came quickly under her elbow. ‘Easy, madam.’

  All at once she was aware of her nightgown, damp with soup and sauce against her legs, and the cat’s little tongue licking it clean. Revolting.

  She thought of the mess she had made in her bedroom, then the mess she had made with Jolyon. Her eyelids grew unbearably heavy. ‘I think you are right, Mrs Holt. I had better get back to bed.’

  The sky was a cold, hard blue, devoid of clouds. Brisk wind kept the trees constantly in motion. A confetti of green, yellow and brown leaves lay strewn over the paths, crunching as the carriage wheels ploughed through them. Elsie was astonished just how far into the distance she could see, even submerged beneath her weeping veil. There were no soot flecks in the air; no pall of coal smoke dimmed the light. It unnerved her.

  ‘Yes, this is the right day for Rupert,’ Sarah sighed. ‘Busy and bright, just like him.’ Her long, horsey face looked worse than yesterday, washed out and baggy-eyed after she had sat up all night with Rupert’s body.

  Elsie regretted not keeping watch herself. In the Great Hall, right at the bottom of the house, she would not have been troubled by the scratching noise; Sarah made no mention of having heard it. And Rupert deserved a last vigil. She had not intended to slight him, but with the baby in her belly, she had grown selfish for her own comfort. Sleep, fire and an easy chair had become the vital things in her life.

  She leant her head against the window. The land looked better in sunshine. She made out larch and elm growing between the chestnut trees, and a squirrel loping across their path. It paused on its hind legs, watching the funeral procession pass, then shot up the nearest trunk.

  The featherman went first, a tray of black plumes balanced upon his head. Next came the mute with his staff. His hat trailed a weeper below his waist.