The Lost Ones

by Anita Frank

  ‘Oh, he was such a sweet little thing. An angel to look at and a kind heart, just like his mother. He was no trouble, good as gold he was. And his father doted on him – when he was here,’ she added.

  ‘And how did Lady Brightwell take to him?’

  Something passed across her face. She rubbed at her bulbous nose. ‘Well, she was very young when she came here – she didn’t know a lot about children.’

  ‘He didn’t take to her?’

  ‘She didn’t take to him!’ she snapped. She settled back in her seat, her lardy features curdling with disapproval. ‘She was soon too preoccupied with her own babe on the way to be bothered with him – didn’t want him around. She just wanted peace and quiet, so she could rest. Nanny did her best to keep him occupied.’

  ‘What was the nanny like? Was she good to Lucien?’ I asked, inching forward in my seat.

  ‘Oh, she adored him! With his father always away in town and a stepmother who couldn’t bear the sight of him, Nanny was all he had, poor lamb.’ She sighed, losing herself in the mid-distance of memory, easing back in her chair. ‘Oh, she was beside herself over the accident. She’d only left for a minute – a minute! And the next thing you know …’ She sniffed, her plump lips pleating. ‘A tragedy, for everyone – and poor Nanny was blamed. Treated like a criminal, marched from the house by Mrs Henge before she had a chance to defend herself.’ I winced as her chair legs scraped on the floor like fingernails down a blackboard. She heaved herself up, shunting the chair back under. ‘Now, I’m sorry, miss, but I have a world of work to do and I’d best be getting on. I don’t much like talking about the past.’ Her face clouded. ‘It’s a painful place to dwell.’

  Expressing my thanks and apologising for monopolising so much of her time, I got to my feet, Annie following suit.

  ‘Just one more question, if I may, Cook. Did Nanny ever say anything about that day, about what happened?’

  ‘No, she never did. I did try to ask about it when I first wrote, but she wanted to put it all behind her, so I let it lie and never mentioned it again.’

  Sensing she had now had enough, I thanked her once more for her time. Annie and I returned to the hall via the baize door, and immediately ran into Mrs Henge.

  ‘Miss Marcham, might I borrow Annie if you are done with her? Some boxes have arrived for Mr Sheers; I would be grateful if Annie could help Maisie bring them in.’

  ‘Mr Sheers’ investigative equipment, I presume?’ I observed with tempered enthusiasm. ‘Well, I certainly wouldn’t want to hinder him in any way. Perhaps when you are done, Annie, you might bring some tea to the orangery?’

  Mrs Henge expressed her gratitude with a curt nod, sweeping past me to disappear below-stairs. Annie scurried outside. I stood for a moment, feeling whimsical and very alone, before pulling myself together and departing the hall at a sharp clip. I was mulling over Cook’s evidence as I travelled down the corridor, and just as I entered the orangery I let out a cry. How stupid I’d been! Cook had referred to letters – correspondence required an address! As fresh possibilities dawned, I turned on my heel and retraced my steps.

  I felt like an intruder as I crept through the baize door and made my way down the stone steps, aware that this was not my domain. I headed into the kitchen, but though a large copper pan now bubbled furiously upon the range, its lid lifting and clanging on the steam, the room was empty.

  Convinced that Cook must be nearby, and given my eager impatience, I decided I would seek her out. I padded softly down the passage, peering in through the open doorways hoping to locate her. I had not gone far before I heard terse voices filtering out from a doorway on my left.

  ‘This has been planned for weeks, Ruth.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, Constance – it’s quite impossible.’

  ‘But I’ve waited so long to get an evening off so that we might go.’

  ‘And it’s unfortunate, I know.’

  ‘But I have already purchased the tickets for the music hall.’ I heard a drawer sliding open. ‘Look, here. Just as we discussed.’

  ‘She is too ill. I cannot leave her like this, especially with all that is going on.’

  ‘Isn’t it a shame she never showed you such loyalty when you needed it most?’

  I couldn’t prevent my sharp intake of breath. The housekeeper’s words dripped with venom, and from the raw silence that followed it was clear that Miss Scott had been rendered speechless. When she recovered, she responded with gall and wormwood.

  ‘I should never have relented and agreed to the trip in the first place. I cannot come with you, and I will not go with you again, and that is the end of it.’

  Muffled sounds of movement spurred me into action. I darted into the still room to avoid the embarrassment of discovery. I pressed myself flat against the wall so Miss Scott could not see me, but after she had stormed past my doorway I peered round to spy on her departure – her steps sharp, her shoulders squared, her fists tight at her side.

  I remained where I was, not wishing to expose my inadvertent eavesdropping. The damp wall chilled my back, but still I did not move. I heard a chair creak, and the sound of ripping paper, over, and over again. Still I waited, my eyes ranging over the array of bottles and jars lining the walls. I watched the minute hand on my wristwatch circle five times before I peeked again from the doorway, and seeing the coast was clear, I crept back to the stone staircase, silently slipping up the steps to the baize door. I pulled it open and let it swing shut, before retracing my steps back down, as carelessly as I could, to make my presence known. I hovered by the empty kitchen, before carrying on down the passageway. I made a brazen entrance through the doorway on my left.

  The housekeeper’s room was a decent size. The one wall was almost entirely taken up by an expansive cupboard polished to the colour of malt vinegar, a row of panelled doors lining the top, while beneath, jutting out proud, were stacked drawers dressed with brass drop handles hung from golden backplates. A small grate, flanked by sash windows, occupied the rear of the wall, a pair of armchairs covered in striped cotton set before it, a small circular table with spindly legs nestled alongside one of them.

  The writing table Mrs Henge sat behind cut into the middle of the room from the right-hand wall, serving almost as a barrier, as if she was guarding the cosy fireside arrangement behind. She looked up, startled by my unexpected appearance, but she rapidly collected herself, rising in a fluid motion.

  ‘Miss Marcham?’

  ‘I was looking for Cook but she’s not in the kitchen.’

  ‘I believe she went outside, I’m sure she’ll be back directly. I can send her to you.’

  But I assured her there was no need to trouble herself – I would seek Cook out.

  As I turned to leave it was impossible to miss the tiny pieces of cerise ticket paper scattered across the table top like confetti, the enduring evidence of a wedding that had long since been over.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  I found Cook sitting out in the yard. She stuffed the letter she had been reading back into its envelope, before lowering her face, to dry her eyes with furtive dabs of her apron.

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry … I didn’t mean to …’ I stuttered, mortified by my ill-timed intrusion, but she cut off my apology with a chubby hand.

  ‘Oh, no matter, miss. I’ve been putting off reading it all day … I’d guessed what it was going to say.’ She sniffed and stood up. ‘My cousin’s lad,’ she explained. ‘He’s the third one she’s lost to this blessed war, poor love.’ She shook her head. ‘Sometimes I wonder whether it’s all worth it. I have my doubts.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Now, what can I do for you, miss?’

  I could see she was putting on a brave front, and not wanting to make an imposition of myself, I briskly enquired whether I might trouble her for the nanny’s address. Her reluctance to accommodate my request was clear, but I assured her I meant no mischief and in the end she agreed to pass it on via Annie, as she needed to consult her address book
, which was upstairs in her room.

  ‘She’s a strange one – that girl of yours,’ she said, watching for my reaction. I simply smiled and thanked her again for her help, before leaving her in peace.

  On returning to the hall I encountered Mr Sheers surrounded by a multitude of boxes. He righted himself when he saw me and offered a diffident smile. I commented on the amount of delivered equipment.

  ‘Oh, it looks far more impressive than it is. Just a gramophone to record any suspicious sounds, a fancy thermometer, and my box brownie camera is around here somewhere, too.’

  ‘I don’t know how photogenic our ghost is, Mr Sheers.’

  He laughed at that and carried on rifling through his boxes. ‘I’m not expecting to capture a ghost on film, Miss Marcham. Photography is a useful tool to demonstrate that at times our eyes really can deceive us.’ He shot me a wry grin when I responded with a derogatory snort. ‘Well, I intend to do everything in my power to prove to you and your sister there is nothing here to be scared of. There truly is a rational explanation for everything.’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid I’m going to need quite some convincing of that, Mr Sheers, but you’re very welcome to try.’

  He let the flap of the box fall from his hand. ‘And how do you intend to solve this perceived mystery, Miss Marcham? I’m curious.’

  ‘I have my own methods,’ I said, and excused myself before he could press me further on the issue.

  Greyswick felt different without Madeleine. Whereas before I had been a visiting member of the family, I now fulfilled the unpleasant role of interloper. The house shunned me, turning a cold shoulder of endless corridors and closed doors, offering me no warmth or comfort – indeed, I felt an absurd compulsion to apologise to the monolith for my continued occupancy. Madeleine had been my benefactor, but now I was friendless – without sponsor, without support. As Annie was occupied with chores, retreating to my room seemed my only option as I whiled away the long hours until dinner, when my presence would be expected – demanded, even. I passed Madeleine’s room, abandoned now, the door ajar. I stopped abruptly. Recovering my steps, I thrust the door wide.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Mrs Henge was hunched over Madeleine’s bedside drawer. When she didn’t respond, I demanded an answer. Slowly she straightened, her left arm bent before her, hidden from view. She squared her shoulders as she turned to face me. Cradled in her arm was the collection of toy soldiers.

  ‘What are you doing with those?’

  ‘Returning them to the nursery, where they belong.’

  The black enamel on the figures blended into the jet of her clothing, whilst the bright scarlet stood out so starkly her shirt appeared speckled with blood. I nursed a niggling doubt as I thought back on the vicar’s parting words – could there be more than one devil at work in this house?

  ‘How did those figures end up in my sister’s room?’

  ‘Don’t you think you ought to ask Mrs Brightwell that?’

  ‘I have. And now I’m asking you.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know, miss.’

  ‘Did you put them there?’

  ‘I don’t have time for silly nonsense like that, miss.’

  She closed the drawer and came around the bottom of the bed, her skirts swinging back and forth with each confident stride, the keys chinking at her waist. She brushed so close to me that I had to recoil to avoid her as she swept through the doorway.

  I don’t know what induced me to follow her. I had no stomach for further confrontation, but there was something intriguing about the housekeeper and I was caught up in her irresistible current. She mounted the end stairs, but as I reached the bottom, she stopped, and instinctively I followed suit, my skin tingling with alertness. A sound drifted down from the nursery: a rhythmic wooden creak.

  Neither of us moved.

  ‘Dear God,’ I whispered. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It is nothing.’ She stared up at the landing, steely eyed. ‘It can be nothing,’ she reiterated with more conviction, and before I could respond, she took off up the remaining stairs.

  My pulse skittered as I followed her. The closer we got to the nursery, the louder the creaking became, predictable in its steady rhythm. She didn’t hesitate on the landing but strode towards the open doorway, apparently oblivious to the icy cold air that wrapped around us. I began to shiver as it bit into my ankles and curled round my throat, kissing my cheeks and sliding down my spine, pulling me ever closer towards the open door. Dear God, did she not feel it?

  The housekeeper halted on the nursery threshold; I felt compelled to join her.

  The cradle was rocking.

  It listed from side to side, to and fro, to and fro, like a boat bobbing on the waves – and beside it, her back to us, stood Annie Burrows.

  She appeared unaware of our presence. Mrs Henge bristled, but before she could reprimand the girl, I laid a restraining hand on her arm and softly called Annie’s name.

  The cradle stopped.

  My heart in my mouth, I called the young girl’s name again. I sensed the housekeeper’s resentment at my interference, but I merely increased the pressure on her arm. Annie’s head tilted up. Awakening from a daze, she turned to face us. Her cheeks ran with tears.

  ‘The baby’s dead.’

  ‘Baby? What baby, Annie?’

  ‘The baby in the cradle … the baby in the cradle is dead.’

  I stared at the wooden crib, ominously restful. With a tightening chest, I forced my leaden feet forward, leaving a stunned and silent Mrs Henge behind me. Blood roared through my ears as I approached. It took all my courage to look inside. I saw only bare slats.

  ‘I see no baby, Annie …’

  Her eyes shimmered with tears as they locked with mine.

  ‘I do …’ she whispered. ‘And it’s blue.’

  ‘Liar!’

  The toy soldiers cradled in Mrs Henge’s arm clattered to the floor as she swooped upon Annie, grabbing the maid’s wrist, her face screwed tight with rage.

  ‘You set the cradle rocking yourself, you mischief-making witch!’

  Annie cried out in pain as the housekeeper wrung her wrist until the pale skin blushed with blood. ‘I didn’t! I swear! I heard the cradle rocking … I came in to see …’

  ‘You are a liar!’

  ‘I swear it’s true – I heard the noise and came to see!’ Annie sobbed.

  Unmoved, Mrs Henge dragged her from the room, ignoring my angry protests as she pushed past me, hauling Annie onto the landing.

  ‘Let her go!’

  I reached forward to physically intercede, but the older woman was incandescent. All reason was lost to her as she manhandled the girl towards the top of the staircase, chanting ‘witch’ over and over again, dragging her down step by stumbling step, Annie sobbing uncontrollably, each utterance of the epithet a brutal blow.

  ‘What in God’s name is going on?’

  Sheers came limping up the hallway. Mrs Henge growled with irritation as she pulled herself up to her full, stately height.

  ‘This girl has been meddling in the nursery, trying to cause mischief. I intend to deal with her.’

  ‘You will not.’ The words tumbled from me on shuddering breaths. ‘I will remind you Annie is my maid, she is no concern of yours. You will unhand her this instant.’

  I took hold of Annie’s free arm and yanked her towards me. For a terrible moment, I thought the housekeeper would maintain her grip, and the poor hysterical girl would be reduced to a rag doll in a tug of war, torn apart rather than surrendered. But the housekeeper’s professionalism reasserted itself. She released her grip and let her hand fall, regaining her dignity as she regarded me with chilling indifference. Annie shuffled to my side, battling to regain her composure.

  ‘Miss Marcham, the evidence was there for all to see.’ It was taking an extraordinary effort for the housekeeper to regain her equilibrium. ‘The girl had no business being in the nursery. She set the cradle rocking herself – and
then to say what she did! Well, I would not be at all surprised if her malevolent interference wasn’t behind all that has happened here of late.’

  ‘How can that be when my sister experienced things before Annie even set foot in this house?’

  ‘I think—’

  ‘Mrs Henge, I am not interested in what you think!’

  ‘What on earth is all the noise? It’s woken Lady Brightwell from her sleep and you must know she needs her rest.’

  Miss Scott came hurrying up the corridor towards us. She looked first to the housekeeper and then to me for an explanation, letting out a cry of alarm at the sight of Annie weeping.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘The cradle was rocking in the nursery.’ I had intended to stop there, but Annie’s words had conjured a hideous image in my mind’s eye, and I could not mute its horror. ‘Annie saw a dead baby in it.’

  Miss Scott flinched. ‘What? I don’t understand. What do you mean “saw”?’

  I gaped for a moment, conscious of revealing too much. ‘Like a vision,’ I said at last.

  ‘Malicious nonsense,’ Mrs Henge hissed, her cold eyes drilling into me, driven by utter contempt.

  I refused to be intimidated by the housekeeper and I resented Mr Sheers’ exasperated exhalation. I knew Annie hadn’t started the cradle rocking, I knew it – a conviction formed in the very marrow of my bones – and I might be struggling to comprehend her macabre discovery, just as I was struggling to fathom her extraordinary abilities, but instinct told me it was significant. I was dependent on Miss Scott to quench my thirst for knowledge.

  ‘Well? Has there ever been a dead baby in that cradle?’

  ‘How can you ask such a thing?’ The companion glared at me, repulsed and flabbergasted in equal measure. Protesting, she hotly chastised me for the insult and wondered at my credence of Annie’s claims, who she declared ‘depraved’ for such gruesome and offensive fabrication. But the ferocity of her denial was so out of character that I felt encouraged to persist.