by Anita Frank
‘We had a most awful row about it,’ she confessed. ‘I begged him to let you stay, Stella, but he won’t hear of it. What am I going to do? Here without you? I can’t bear the thought of it!’
Feeling empty and helpless I drew her back into my embrace, pressing my lips to her hair, as the shoulder of my gown grew damp with her tears. Aware Mr Sheers would soon be upon us, I pulled her towards an alcove and wiped her cheeks dry, smoothing her face with my palms, instructing her to calm herself.
‘It is not too late, Stella,’ she insisted, her mouth set with grim determination. ‘I will not let them send you away. I will make them believe us.’
‘Oh Madeleine, I will have to go,’ I whispered. ‘But you must come to Haverton, as soon as you are able, and stay for as long as you can.’
We pulled apart as Mr Sheers limped into the corridor. He slowed when he saw us, huddled in the corner. With a flicker of acknowledgement, he proceeded to the drawing-room door. I heard him sigh as he pushed it open.
Madeleine regarded him with contempt, her eyes glittering. ‘All is not yet lost, Stella.’
Feeling an awful foreboding I caught hold of her arm. ‘Promise me you won’t do anything rash.’
She failed to respond. I followed her into the lion’s den, braced for tumult.
‘Darling! Come and join us,’ Hector called out as we entered.
The jovial atmosphere died the moment Madeleine and I drew near. Our arrival was like a damp towel thrown over leaping flames – you could almost hear the hiss of the extinguished conviviality that had warmed the air.
I couldn’t help but notice the satisfied look that darted between Lady Brightwell and Miss Scott, as they sat cosily by the fire, glasses of sherry in hand. I had no doubt the news of my imminent departure had been warmly welcomed by them both – one less troublesome girl to deal with.
Only Mr Sheers, who pushed himself up from his chair as we came in, bore the sobriety of the situation. Perhaps his conscience had been tweaked and he was beginning to rethink his part in the whole unsavoury affair. I no longer cared. I was being made to leave, and I was – as was true with so many things – powerless to do anything about it. I took a chair removed from the group and was heartened when Madeleine chose to eschew the vacant seat next to Hector to keep me company instead. The slight did not go unnoticed.
Hector poured us both sherry from the decanter on the sideboard. He remained tight-lipped as he handed us our glasses. He tried to catch Madeleine’s eye, but she studiously avoided it, barely murmuring her thanks. A crease appeared between his brows, but he said nothing, and returned to his seat by the fire, engaging his mother in conversation about the woeful lack of gardeners.
It struck me how contrived it all was. Everyone in the room knew I would be leaving on the morning train, and yet no one would even reference the fact. It was a great open secret – a gaping wound that was destined to remain undressed. We would all simply turn away from its unpleasant gore and carry on as if nothing was wrong. The despicable politeness of it all made me feel quite sick.
Left to stew in my own thoughts, I began to resent Annie Burrows’ part in it all, more and more. I wondered what she had told Mr Sheers. I had tried to discuss the interview with her when she came to dress me, but she had kept her answers vague, deflecting my enquiries with such skill she soon wore me down. I had no doubt she would have led him a merry dance, too, deftly side-stepping his questions, giving nothing away. She would have to go. I couldn’t help but hold her at least partly accountable for the situation I now found myself in. If she had been more reliable, more forthright – dammit all, more honest! – then she could have added her voice to Madeleine’s and my own. She had not.
I was so lost in my thoughts that I did not notice the rise in Madeleine’s colour, or the manic glint in her eye. Perhaps if I had not been so self-absorbed I could have acted before it was too late. But I remained unaware of them until Madeleine cut across the room’s banal conversation.
‘Are we really going to act as if nothing has happened?’ Her shrill voice was as demanding of attention as breaking glass. ‘Stella is being made to leave – is no one going to mention her imminent departure?’ Hector found himself pinned by her disdain. ‘You make such a big show of saying this is my house, my home, and yet I have no say in it. I do not wish my sister to leave, and yet you take it upon yourself to banish her in disgrace.’
This uncharacteristic display of defiance was breathtaking. But though I was awed by the bravery summoned for the confrontation, I desperately wished she hadn’t embarked on a battle there was no hope of winning.
‘Madeleine—’
‘No, Stella, I will not sit here and be reasonable. I tried that, and it got me nowhere. I am no suffragette but it appears if I want my voice to be heard in this house, I must take a more militant stance.’
‘For God’s sake, Madeleine,’ Hector said, ‘we’ve discussed all this—’
‘Have we, Hector? Have we discussed it? A discussion requires more than one person’s participation. It requires an exchange of opinions and a willingness to shed preconceptions, especially if the evidence is sufficiently compelling. There has been no discussion here. Stella and I have attempted to present our evidence, but the opinion of the jury was so predetermined against us we never had a chance.’
‘You are absolutely right, my dear,’ Lady Brightwell chirped up. ‘As extraordinary as it may be to you, I have no intention of lending any credence to the ludicrous claim this house is haunted.’
‘Mother, please …’
‘Well, I’m sorry, Hector, but it’s absurd. The person who has made a compelling case, to my mind at least, is Mr Sheers. This nonsense is little more than the …’ she paused. ‘What was it again, Mr Sheers?’
‘The influence of suggestion and the power of the subconscious.’
He offered the summation with an air of reluctance. I wondered whether he was now beginning to regret nosing into a conversation that had been none of his business, interfering in something that went far deeper than a superficial fancy for the afterlife.
I had expected Madeleine to wilt under Lady Brightwell’s condemnation, just as she had withered on so many previous occasions, but it seemed I had underestimated my sister. She had moulded herself into a thing of steel, inflexible and strong.
‘I know what I heard, Mr Sheers, and it was not some creation of my imagination. And unless someone in this house is lying, things have happened which cannot be neatly explained away by your theory.’
Sheers made no attempt to correct her, he just carried on staring into the flames. It was Hector who tried to silence Madeleine, but she would have none of it.
‘Hector, I’ve been telling you for weeks that I’ve heard crying coming from the nursery. And now, I have corroborating witnesses—’
‘Darling, please.’ He covered the distance to Madeleine’s chair in a few strides, dropping into a crouch to take her hands. ‘This has all been explained to you. Stella loves you very much. She wants to believe you, so much so, her own mind creates the suggestions you have planted there …’
I objected to him telling me my own mind. ‘You’re wrong, Hector. I’m not so much of a fool as you take me for and I’m not so easily encouraged as you think. I didn’t want to believe Madeleine – I didn’t believe her, not initially. It was only after I had heard the crying myself that I realised she had been telling the truth all along. I too am utterly convinced a spirit lingers in this house.’
From the fireplace, Lady Brightwell released a derisive cackle.
‘Stop it! Stop it now!’ Madeleine jerked out of her seat, sending Hector sprawling. My sister, my sweet little sister with her swelled stomach, looked like Boudicca ready for battle. ‘We are not mad. We know what we heard and what’s more, we know who we heard.’
I cringed. My fists clenched, trying to hold onto the secret I feared Madeleine was about to let fly. I had been impressed by her determined courage to speak out, but now
I was apprehensive. I felt like an army protected by a loose cannon – grateful for its presence but fearful of where the next round would land.
‘Oh wonderful!’ Lady Brightwell crowed, clapping her hands in glee. ‘You intend to unmask the ghost.’ I winced at her acerbity, willing Madeleine to keep calm, to retain our secret until we could nurture it for better use than this fraught defence. ‘So? Who is it? Who dares to upset the tranquillity of my home?’
Time itself seemed to stop in breathless anticipation of the answer. It was not too late to avert the impending disaster. Madeleine delayed her response for so long that for a blissful moment I thought she had seen reason and drawn back from the edge of the precipice. But I was wrong. Her delicate pink lips curled as her narrow chin jutted up. She would not be cowed, there was no going back now. Her voice rang through the electrified air.
‘Lucien Brightwell.’
And at precisely that moment, the lights went out.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Thanks to the fire, we were not plunged into total darkness. Miss Scott let out a cry of fright, and I heard Madeleine gasp, but Hector was quick to reassure us all it was little more than a blown fuse. Lady Brightwell remained phlegmatic. Sitting beside the fire as she was I couldn’t help but picture her as a devil backlit by Hades.
Hector retrieved the matches from the mantel and fumbled his way around the room lighting the oil lamps. Before long, the golden cast of the fire had been supplemented by further puddles of light. He was just replacing the last glass bowl when the door opened, and Mrs Henge loomed from the pitch, her face illuminated in a most ghastly fashion by the flickering flame she carried before her.
‘I brought some candles, Mr Brightwell, I thought you might need them.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Henge. It’s probably a fuse. I’ll have to go down to the cellar to change it.’
‘I believe there is a box of spare wires by the electric board, sir.’
‘Very good, would you set these candles about the room? I’ll go and sort this out.’
‘Let me come with you,’ Sheers offered, pushing himself up.
I recalled his torturous journey down the stairs and imagined the narrow damp steps that would lead into the bowels of the house. I got to my feet.
‘Don’t trouble yourself, Mr Sheers, I’ll go.’ Hector displayed a distinct lack of enthusiasm at the prospect of my company. ‘You’ll need someone to hold the candle, and no offence intended, Mr Sheers, but we don’t want you coming a cropper on the cellar stairs.’
I realised too late how belittling my flippancy was. I had stolen his pride with my crass words. I may not have liked him, I may have resented his opinions, but I had injured him in a way so callous it was unforgivable.
Only Mr Sheers and myself, however, appeared aware of my misdemeanour. He made no comment but punished me by holding my appalled gaze until I squirmed, my jaw gaping as words of apology screamed in my skull but failed to reach my lips. Mortification robbed me of my voice.
‘Well, hurry if you’re coming, Stella,’ Hector said offering me a candle, impatient to get on. Mr Sheers lowered himself back into his chair.
The black beyond the drawing room was indecipherable. Not a glimmer other than our wan flames pierced the umbra until we reached the hall, where beams of moonlight strained to reach the bottom of the staircase. I bumped into the oak table and cursed at the burst of pain in my hip. Hector touched my arm and I assured him I was quite well, but he cupped my elbow all the same and guided me to the green baize door. Our candles twitched and dipped, brushed by chilly draughts.
‘Careful of the steps.’
He led the way down the flight of stone steps immediately beyond the servants’ entrance. At the bottom I could discern the beginnings of a passageway, but it vanished into the darkness before it had barely begun. There was a doorway to our right through which I could see the twin glow of two candles, set upon a large table. They lit three faces: Cook, Maisie and Annie, all clustered round, each taken aback by our arrival. Annie’s attention settled upon me, her expression enigmatic in the candlelight. The flames spluttered, and she looked away.
‘Do you need any help, Master Hector?’ Cook called out.
‘No, no thank you, Cook.’ A golden streak danced across Hector’s features. ‘It’ll just be the fuse. I’ll head down now and sort it out. We’ll have you bathed in light in no time.’
The cellar door was tucked beneath the slope of the stairs. Hector lowered his burning wick to the handle and turned the key jutting from the lock.
‘Are you sure you want to come down?’ he asked me.
‘You won’t see a thing otherwise.’
The door groaned as it opened. Stubby stone steps fell away into the abyss and I felt a tremor of trepidation. Hector went first, his candle largely futile. Quelling my nerves, I followed him down.
The steps were narrow and steep. I took them one at a time, like a cautious child. The air was glacial and when I put my hand to the wall to steady myself, the stone beneath my palm was cold and clammy, as if the very foundations of the house were feverishly perspiring. The relief at finally reaching the rough stone floor at the bottom was overwhelming. Even with our candles, we could barely make out our surroundings. I sensed rather than saw the low brick-arched ceiling, the uneven gritty floor and the stone shelves set into the walls.
Hector’s confidence ebbed under the oppressive darkness. He mumbled that the electric board was at the far end of the cellar, an undiscernible distance before us – it could as well have been five paces as fifty. He began to shunt forward, his feet shuffling like a blind man’s, his black evening suit blending into the enveloping murk. My heart hammered as I stumbled to keep up with him. A harsh vinegary smell hung in the chilly air and I could faintly hear a rhythmic dripping, like a water clock keeping time.
‘There must be a blown bottle of wine down here somewhere,’ Hector muttered.
Our progress was painful – stunted footsteps pressing into air that grew colder and colder until goose-pimples peaked down my arms and across my shoulders. I clenched my teeth to prevent them from chattering.
‘Ah, I think … I think it’s here.’ There was palpable relief in Hector’s voice as he held his candle aloft, its flickering glow just catching the edge of the electric board with its intricate array of wires. ‘Yes, here we are …’ Setting his candlestick down on the shelf below it, he peered up, trying to make sense of the twisted threads.
‘Do be careful.’
‘It’s quite all right, I just need to switch this fellow out …’
His candle guttered and died.
‘Dammit.’
The gloom drew ever nearer, only kept at bay now by my own spluttering flame.
There was an almighty clunk as the cellar door slammed shut. Hector cried out and I leapt from my skin like a Jack-in-the-box. My candle flame twitched and vanished. We were engulfed by darkness.
‘Dear God, I can’t see a thing!’ Hector exclaimed.
My heart was pounding, but I cautioned myself to keep calm. I stretched out my fingers to interpret my surroundings. I felt a rough wooden crate, with smooth glass jars inside. I nursed a naive hope of discovering a matchbox, but there could have been a hundred matchboxes within my reach – finding one in this underground cavern without a glint of light was a task akin to finding the Holy Grail, and somewhat less likely.
‘We must have light …’ I tried to stave the panic from my voice. ‘I’ll go back upstairs and find some matches.’
‘I’ll fumble around down here and see if I can find some.’
I turned around. The awful blindness had stripped me of all efficiency and every facet of capability. I shuffled forwards, my arms outstretched, slicing through space before me. I caught something and sent it smashing to the floor. My shoes slid into a sticky substance and given the sweet burst of scent I deduced it to be a jar of jam. Cook would not be pleased.
‘Are you all right?’ Hector’s voice drifted m
y way.
‘I think I’m nearly there …’ My fingertips inched across coarse stone, tracing the outline of a step. ‘Yes! Yes, I’ve reached the stairs, Hector.’
It was then I heard the noise – the sound of metal on stone. There was a rhythmic quality to it, paced and regular, like something rolling. I heard it twang as it skipped over the rough floor.
‘What the devil …’ Hector started, but then cried out in alarm. I called his name, but he didn’t answer. There was a crash and clattering. I called his name again, panic rising as I stumbled back through the darkness, fear tearing at my chest as I begged him to answer me.
The room exploded into light. I shielded my eyes from the startling brightness, wincing, blinded again – this time by the multitude of spots dancing in my pupils. The single bulb suspended from the ceiling swayed on its short cord.
My breathing steadied as I became accustomed to the light. Hector stood before me, rigid, his face pallid. Concerned, I called his name, but it died on my lips. Lying on the ground before him was a metal hoop, a child’s toy, the same child’s toy I now knew I had heard rolling down the length of the cellar before it clattered to the ground at his feet. My stomach lurched. I had seen that hoop before.
‘Were you at the steps the whole time, Stella?’ Hector croaked. I nodded. ‘And there is no one else in here with us?’
At this he visibly rallied and whirled around to peer down the stretch of cellar behind him. There was no one there. We were alone.
‘It cannot be …’
‘Hector, what is it?’
‘I felt something. I felt something, here, in the darkness.’
I could barely whisper my question as to what.
His timorous features mirrored my own.
‘A child, Stella – I felt a child.’
Chapter Twenty-Five