by Anita Frank
She sighed as she sat back down on her chair. ‘I asked Lucien if he wanted to hold him – usually he doted on the little chap, but he didn’t want to that day, he was just being cross and moody, bless him. He must have been feeling more poorly than he let on.’ She paused, her head sinking towards her chest. ‘And then I felt the wave of nausea. That’s how it had taken me, the ’flu. Amongst other things, my stomach hadn’t been right. I’d felt fine until then, and suddenly I knew I was going to be sick, and I couldn’t be sick in that room, not with those two littl’uns in it. So, I made a dash for the servants’ bathroom – it was only through the door on the landing, not far. I told him to stay put and watch his brother and I just ran, before it was too late.’
‘And when you got back …’ She didn’t need to answer my rhetorical question. We both knew the heartbreaking conclusion to the story.
‘It all happened so quick,’ she whispered, wiping her eyes with the handkerchief, the horror raw again. ‘I was gone moments, moments, Miss Marcham – but it was still too long.’ Distress drove her to her feet once more, and she busied herself collecting our teacups, the china tinkling in her shaking hands. She returned them to the tray on the table and paused, her back still to us. ‘If he had just stayed put,’ she said. ‘If he had just stayed in the nursery as I told him.’
‘Was there anyone else about?’ I asked.
‘Oh well, there must have been people about, it’s a great house.’ She stopped, trawling her memories with extra care, searching for tiny details dusty from neglect. ‘I heard a door open on the lower landing, so that must have been Lady Brightwell’s room and, of course, I saw Mrs Henge.’
‘Mrs Henge?’
‘Yes, yes that’s right – she was coming up the servants’ staircase as I dashed past it to the bathroom.’
‘And was it you who found Lucien?’
She shook her head. ‘No. No, I heard the commotion from the bathroom – shouting, a scream. I knew then. My heart just fell out of me – a sixth sense, I suppose. I started running back to the nursery, but it was too late. They were already gathered around him, at the bottom of the stairs.’
‘Who, Nanny Jenkins, who was already there?’
‘All of them. They had heard the fall, and all come running: Miss Scott, Mrs Henge – even Lady Brightwell. They were all crowded round him – Lady Brightwell calling for a doctor to be summoned, Miss Scott crying, Mrs Henge saying it was too late. And it was – it was too late.’
Nanny Jenkins sniffled into her handkerchief before fussing again with the tray, but her actions were a sham, her busyness a thin veil to mask the misery that tore at her soul. Chilled by her story, I wrapped my arms around me, images of Lucien circling before me like a zoetrope, animating him in my mind’s eye.
What had really happened on that nursery landing, all those years ago?
‘There was one thing that stuck in my mind,’ Nanny offered. ‘It struck me as odd at the time, but – well, I didn’t really think about it after. I suppose I was too grief-stricken, and then there was all the added unpleasantness that followed …’ She didn’t finish. I knew she was alluding to her dismissal, done with such cruelty and abruptness. I could only imagine how she must have suffered.
‘What was it?’ I noticed Annie lift her head, and I became aware of her quiet aura.
‘The last thing I said to him as I ran from the room was “Keep an eye on your brother”, but as I reached the landing I heard him call after me. I didn’t stop – I had to get to the bathroom – and I put it down to sulkiness, from him still being under the weather.’
‘What did he say?’ I asked, every nerve in my body tingling with expectation.
‘The most curious thing, so out of character, but I heard it clear as day.’
‘What was it? What did Lucien say?’
‘He said, “He’s not my brother.”’
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Our journey back was subdued. Hearing Lucien’s last hours recalled in such detail had lent a corporeal quality to the whole episode and it left me feeling bereft, as if I had known the boy personally. The strange occurrences at Greyswick were so terrifying it was easy to think they were fired by a malevolent intent, but Nanny Jenkins’ fond conjuring now threw doubt on that conviction. I raised this with Annie on the train home and she admitted that the motivations of the dead could easily be misinterpreted by the living.
And then there was the conundrum of Lucien’s last living message – He’s not my brother. Were those the words of a tired, petulant boy? Had he resented the responsibility of watching the baby, perhaps jealous now the novelty had worn off? Or did something far more sinister lurk behind the declaration? And what of Annie’s dead baby? Nanny Jenkins had looked at me in blank bewilderment when I questioned her on the subject and Annie herself seemed unable throw any light on the matter – indeed, she was now as confused as I was. I could hear Mr Sheers’ droll voice echoing ‘How convenient’ in my ear, but I dismissed him. I still had faith in Annie Burrows. There was a mystery here, but not of her making and I was convinced I would be unable to solve it without her unique insight.
It was late afternoon by the time we arrived back at Greyswick. I was in the process of unbuttoning my overcoat as we moved through the vestibule into the hall, when I came to an abrupt halt – Mrs Henge stood by the oak table, her hands clenched by her sides.
‘I trust your visit with Nanny Jenkins proved satisfactory?’
Cook, it appeared, had been unable to keep our secret and now Mrs Henge knew. Mrs Henge who had been coming up the servants’ staircase. Mrs Henge who had declared Lucien Brightwell beyond saving.
‘Is that where we’ve been?’ I said, tilting my head to extract my hat pin.
She came forward, the accompanying jangle of keys muted by the folds of fabric that rippled with every step.
‘Edith Jenkins was dismissed from this house following an unforgiveable dereliction of duty. I need hardly say, therefore, that whatever the woman has told you should not be trusted.’
I handed my hat and pin to Annie. ‘I will make my own mind up about Nanny Jenkins, if that is indeed where I’ve been.’ I began to walk past, but I stopped as I drew abreast of her.
‘Did you see Lucien on the landing? You were coming up the servants’ staircase – you must have used the nursery stairs to join Lady Brightwell and Miss Scott by his body.’
‘He had already fallen when I reached the landing. It was too late to do anything by then.’ She whipped round to Annie. ‘You’d best hurry up and put those things away. Cook needs your help with dinner.’
And casting me a final glance, as if daring me to challenge her order, she spun on her heel and strode away, disappearing behind the green baize door.
The evening passed uneventfully. Lady Brightwell managed to join us for dinner but sat at the table like a wraith, devoid of her usual vim. She even meekly submitted to Miss Scott’s demand that she absent herself from the following morning’s Sunday service. Indeed, such was her listlessness, none of us were surprised by her decision to retire as soon as the meal was over. We wished her goodnight as she left, aided by her inexhaustible companion.
Mr Sheers and I took our coffee in the drawing room. I was so preoccupied with the day’s revelations that his polite attempts at conversation went largely unnoticed, and in the end I excused myself, apologising for my distracted behaviour. I retreated to the quiet confines of my room where, alone with my thoughts, I could work further on the puzzle before me.
I woke early the following morning. Knowing Lady Brightwell would herself be absent, I had already decided to miss church, so I promptly rolled over and went back to sleep. I came to a good deal later, hauling myself out of an unpleasant dream. Though I was unable recall the details, it left me with a residual feeling of fear.
The fire was crackling in the grate. I stretched underneath the covers to dispel any remnants of tension, then lay listening to the spluttering flames and the chirping of birdson
g beyond the window panes.
Throwing back the covers, I reached for the bell-pull before hurrying to the bathroom to answer a rather pressing call of nature. I heard a faint tap and my bedroom door swish open. I flushed the water closet and washed my hands, calling out to Annie that I would be with her in a minute. I finished my ablutions and went to join her in the bedroom – but the room was empty, and the door was shut.
A light knock interrupted my puzzlement and Annie bobbed into the room.
‘Did you come in earlier? When I was in the bathroom?’
‘No, miss.’ Her colour was up, and she was breathing hard, as if she had been running. ‘I’m sorry I’m late answering the bell, but, well, there was a bit of an incident in the kitchen that I had to clear up.’
I assured her I wasn’t inconvenienced. Directing her to take out a black skirt and a lavender shirtwaister from the wardrobe, I slipped on my undergarments. When I was ready, she helped me into my things, her chapped fingers fumbling over the skirt’s petite buttons. Once attired, I sat down at the dressing table and applied some scent while she brushed through my hair, scooping it up and pinning it in place. She dressed it in a different style, but I thought it quite becoming and told her so. Her cheeks glowed with pleasure at the unexpected praise. Abashed by her reaction, she busied herself tidying away my night things and straightening the bed. I lifted the lid on my jewellery box and selected a cameo brooch which I pinned to my high, frilled collar. That done, I reached for my locket.
It was not there.
I frowned. I had taken to hanging it from the hinge of the triptych mirror that stood upon my dressing table. Bemused, I looked again, at both the left and right set of hinges. I stood up and peered behind the mirrors, thinking it had perhaps slipped round, out of sight, but it was still nowhere to be seen. I felt the first inkling of concern, but batted it away. I had been sleepy and distracted when I went to bed – perhaps the chain had missed the hinge and the locket had fallen to the floor instead. I pushed back my stool and peered underneath. No gold locket.
My hands were beginning to shake as I scrabbled through the contents of the jewel box, but still it was not to be found. I asked Annie whether she had put my locket away the previous night.
‘No, miss. Didn’t you hang it up?’
‘I thought I had …’ I spun back to the dressing table, pressing my palms flat on the polished surface to steady myself, as a wave of pure panic surged over me. ‘I was definitely wearing it last night, wasn’t I? To dinner?’ I tried to picture myself. I didn’t always wear it with my evening dress after all, sometimes I wore my pearls. The nights all blurred into one as I tried to focus on events not more than twelve hours old. I was sure I had worn it. I could picture myself at the mirror, taking it off. And that was last night – wasn’t it? My mind was playing tricks on me.
‘Miss?’
Annie had detected my rising angst, bubbling up inside me like lava, threatening to overflow. I whirled round to her. I tried to mock my foolishness, but the laugh that escaped me was brittle and fraught.
‘I can’t seem to find my locket. I’m sure it must be here right in front of me – I just can’t see it.’
I was pathetically grateful that she grasped the gravity of the situation right away. She hurried over to the dressing table, searching about its top and drawers, while I stood helpless. She dropped to her knees, sweeping her hands flat across the carpet in case it had merged with the pattern, before diving them underneath the base of the dressing table.
After what seemed an age, she confirmed my worst fears.
‘It has to be here somewhere,’ I declared. ‘We must look for it, we must look everywhere for it.’
With rising dread, I began pulling out drawers, searching through their contents, even those I knew I hadn’t touched for days. It had to be in the room somewhere, it just had to be! Tears pricked at my eyes as my frustration grew, every search proving futile. With Annie’s help I began removing my clothes from the wardrobe in the vain hope it had somehow got snagged on a dress, a hanger, put in a pocket – anything, anything had become a possibility, though in the back of my mind I knew I was clutching at straws. Fear knotted in my stomach. I couldn’t lose that locket. It was all I had left.
‘Perhaps the clasp broke and it dropped off without you realising it,’ Annie suggested. ‘Try and think back to the last time you remember having it.’
I crumpled down on the end of the bed trying hard not to cry. I cast my mind back, raking through the events of yesterday, scene by scene, but it was so hard to remember. The locket was my constant companion. Even on the rare occasions I didn’t wear it, I still felt its weight against my chest, in the same way that Gerald was forever in my thoughts – even when other things distracted me, he was always there, milling in the background.
‘After dinner!’ I looked up, my eyes shining. ‘I remember fiddling with it during coffee with Mr Sheers in the drawing room.’ I beamed at her as if this memory was the key. A pernicious voice in my head warned me it wasn’t.
But it was a start. Annie suggested we retrace my steps from that point, she was sure we would then find it. There was something comforting about her confidence. She understood how important it was that the locket was found, an importance that had nothing to do with its monetary worth. Its value was far more profound than that.
We raced downstairs and burst into the drawing room. Lady Brightwell, looking vastly improved, was engaged in a sedate game of cards with Miss Scott. She expressed her surprise at our explosive entrance, and her surprise again as I dropped to my knees and began reaching under the armchairs.
‘My locket, I’ve lost my locket, have you seen it?’ I gabbled, praying one of them would declare it had already been discovered and set aside for safekeeping.
‘Oh no! Not your precious one?’ Miss Scott cried.
Precious. The word summed it up perfectly. The terrifying thought that it might be gone for ever insinuated its way into my mind. I sat back on my heels and pressed my hand against my forehead as I fought back the tears. I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
‘Oh, my dear, I’ll help you look.’ Miss Scott lay down her cards and got up. Lady Brightwell huffed at the abandonment of the game, but even she possessed sufficient sensitivity to appreciate my distress.
‘It must be here somewhere. When did you last have it? It couldn’t have been lost outside, could it?’ Miss Scott said, coming to my aid.
Annie had been ferreting around the room while we were talking. She caught my eye. My heart sank as she shook her head. Miss Scott, with forced positivity, declared it must be in the house somewhere. Learning that after coffee I had returned to my room, she charged Annie with searching the corridor and the hall, while she marched me back upstairs.
Mr Sheers was embroiled in setting up his gramophone on the landing. He must have detected my anxiety for he stopped what he was doing and asked whether everything was all right.
‘Poor Miss Marcham has lost her locket. It’s so terribly important to her. I don’t suppose you have seen it, by any chance?’
‘The gold one you were wearing last night?’ I was surprised he had noticed such a trifling detail. ‘I was trying to entertain you with a mildly humorous tale from my university days, but you were clearly miles away, clasping your locket as if it were a talisman.’
‘Oh dear, we really must find it, poor girl,’ Miss Scott cooed. ‘We must search your room again.’
‘I stopped into Madeleine’s room first!’ New hope lifted my heart at the recollection. ‘I borrowed a nightgown – I had been too hot in mine. Perhaps it fell off in her room.’ Buoyed, I ran to Madeleine’s door. When Miss Scott failed to move, I urged her to join me.
As soon as I entered I began to search. Miss Scott hovered just through the doorway, gawping about as if she were visiting an exhibit.
‘Goodness, I haven’t been in this room for so many years.’ She drifted towards the bed, her fingers alighting on the carved bed
post. ‘This was Lady Brightwell’s room when we first arrived. They were still drawing up the plans for the new wing where her suite is now, so she had this room.’
‘I can’t see it on the floor anywhere, can you? Will you help me search the dressing room?’
Miss Scott blinked as my appeal pulled her from the past. She looked beyond me to the white panelled door that separated the two rooms. She bit her lip, distracted.
Muttering under my breath I pushed open the door and began to search the floor near the armoire where I’d found the nightgown. Miss Scott made it as far as the doorway but came no further. She looked pale and out of sorts as she fiddled with the length of pearls that swung low on her chest. ‘You search in here, Miss Marcham,’ she said at last, backing away, ‘while I check the bedroom once again, just in case …’
Ten minutes later my stomach roiled. There was no sign of my locket – I was running out of places to look.
‘Any luck?’ Mr Sheers called as we closed the door behind us.
Too upset to speak, I shook my head and hurried to search my own room once again. This time I was ruthless in my endeavour – flinging things from drawers, pulling the coverings from my bed, upending trinket boxes – but still nothing. I sank down into the tumbled mass of bedding and covered my face with my hands as tears began to slide down my cheeks. I thought of Gerald, of how I had betrayed him with my negligence, and my heart ached.
‘Miss Marcham …’ Sheers’ voice was soft, and kind and I couldn’t bear it. I wondered how long he had been stood in my doorway, silently watching my grief. There was a bustle of activity and Miss Scott materialised at my side, her fingers resting on my shoulder.
‘Oh, my dear. Still no joy?’
Sniffling, I wiped my hands across my face. I was surprised to see that Mrs Henge now stood beside Mr Sheers.
‘I think, miss, if your search of the house has proven to no avail, we must think of alternative possibilities.’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked her.