The Lost Ones

by Anita Frank

  My voice had deserted me, so I just nodded.

  ‘It’s getting quite dark. Perhaps we ought to turn around. I hope we’re not going to be late for dinner, her ladyship rather terrifies the life out of me.’

  He came back but made no attempt to offer me his arm this time. He kept his hands in his pockets and we walked side by side.

  ‘Anyway,’ he continued after we’d retraced our steps a short way, ‘I dragged myself into the crater and was soon joined by some other poor sod who’d had his ear shot off. He managed to tourniquet my leg, which was a good job because I was getting rather woozy by then. We waited there until nightfall. When the Hun had finally stopped shooting and bombing, and all we could hear was the wounded moaning, he dragged me to the top of the crater. He threw me over his shoulder and carried me all the way to our trench. Bloody hero. Saved my life, no doubt about that.’ He fleetingly glanced my way. ‘The rest, as they say, well, the rest is history. Doctors took one look and lopped off my leg. Sent home. Nice prosthetic care of King and country’ – here he tapped the wood that lay beneath his trouser leg – ‘and, well, months of learning to walk again. That’s my story. That’s the end,’ he finished, shooting me another grin.

  What could I say? I’m sorry? I’m sorry you lost your leg, I’m sorry you’re crippled, I’m sorry you saw your friend obliterated before your eyes? In the end I said nothing, but let the silence convey all that I felt, all that I wished. Instead, I asked him how he came to be doing what he was doing now – investigating the paranormal.

  ‘I had a brother, Will.’

  Here my sympathy was instinctive, but he waved away my condolences, and I realised this was territory he was less callous about. This was not the bearable loss of a leg, it was far worse than a sacrificed limb – this was a brother, a friend, a cohort in the misdeeds of youth. I thought of Lydia, and I shared his pain.

  ‘He was younger than me – and in case you’re wondering, by far the better man.’ A hank of hair slipped down over his forehead and he pushed it back. ‘My father swears that Will appeared to him when he died.’

  I didn’t bother to try and conceal my astonishment. He was obviously quite used to the reaction and held up his hands by way of tempering my shock as he continued to explain. ‘My father was reading in the garden and looked up from his book to see Will standing by the gate. He was in full dress uniform and my father thought he must have got some leave. So, he jumped up, all excited, and called for my mother through the back door, but by the time he’d turned around Will was gone.’ He paused, a sorrowful breath easing from him. ‘They received a telegram two days later saying he’d died of wounds sustained.’

  I reached out to touch his arm in sympathy, but he stepped away, leaving my hand to fall.

  ‘My father became obsessed with similar tales of boys appearing to loved ones at the moment of death. He took comfort from them, believing them to prove that life continues in some way, but I’ve seen life ebb away from enough young men to know there is nothing beyond. When I came home, it was difficult – to see them carry such hope, such absurd belief. We fought.’

  ‘And so, this work of yours …’

  ‘Actually, my father encouraged it. It was his challenge to me. I think he thought if I immersed myself in enough enquiries I would start to see the truth. Instead, I made it my absolute goal to debunk as many money-grabbing mediums as I could and provide logical explanations for these so-called manifestations – and I’ve been very good at it.’

  ‘Until now.’

  He grabbed my hand, his fingers biting into mine. ‘I don’t want to believe, Miss Marcham. I want things to be straightforward, simple: death is death. I can’t stand the thought of the men I stood beside – the good men I saw fall – wandering hopelessly, miserably, in some never-never land existence. I need to know they are gone and gone for good, that they truly feel no more pain, feel no more fear. What’s happened here has jeopardised the only comfort I’ve been able to take – that there is an end, a solid, unfeeling, nothingness end.’

  I cupped our joined hands. ‘But you can’t deny what you have encountered here?’

  He tore himself free of my grasp, spinning away from me. He ran his hand through his hair in abject despair.

  ‘No, I can’t. And it terrifies me.’ I almost missed his confession, the words stealing into the cool night air, but as if to make sure I had absorbed their significance, appreciated his torment, he whirled back to face me. ‘It absolutely bloody terrifies me,’ he clarified for good measure.

  We had reached the porch now, and bearing the weight of his confession between us, we mounted the steps to the door, the oily black paint glistening in the flickering light of the braziers that burned either side of it.

  I hesitated, my hand on the large brass handle, eager to say something to ease his anguish.

  ‘I am determined to fathom all of this out, Mr Sheers. And maybe then, I will be able to offer you an answer to your quest.’

  ‘Tristan.’

  I blinked. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘My name is Tristan. You don’t have to keep on calling me Mr Sheers. It makes me feel terribly old and quite frankly I feel old enough.’

  ‘Oh.’ I blinked again. ‘Then you should call me Stella.’

  ‘Stella.’

  He seemed to savour the sound of it on his tongue, before turning to face down the darkening night as it drew ever closer, holding it at bay while I entered the dubious protection of Greyswick, alone.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  The atmosphere at dinner was somewhat taut. Lady Brightwell, now returning to form, pithily bemoaned our continued presence, leaving us in no doubt that we were most unwelcome houseguests. She refused to temper her opinions and Miss Scott was left to mop up the spillages of her foul temper and frustration. It was a relief to have Tristan as an ally. He took her ladyship’s comments with remarkable good humour – indeed his gentle jousting was so successful that in one unguarded moment Lady Brightwell chuckled at his riposte. I nearly choked on my wine.

  After dinner, he kindly forewent his cigar and brandy to offer me support in the drawing room. Placing himself beside me, he enquired after the title of my book and on hearing the answer, took it from my hands, extolling the virtues of the author as he flicked through its pages. He was about to return it when he spotted the handwriting on the inside leaf. Only after he had read the inscription did he close the book and pass it back to me; I found I was unable to meet his eye.

  We did not tarry long after dinner. Miss Scott chivvied Lady Brightwell to bed as soon as she saw her head begin to droop, and Mr Sheers and I were happy to follow. We parted company on the landing, with Miss Scott escorting Lady Brightwell to her rooms in the new wing, whilst Mr Sheers and I retreated into the older part of the house.

  ‘Will you be keeping a vigil again tonight?’ I asked as I hovered outside my door.

  ‘I think I ought to, though there’s no telling whether it will bear fruit. I can’t stay here for ever; I think Lady Brightwell’s patience is beginning to wear thin, but I would like to discover something definite before I go.’

  ‘I fear my time is running out as well,’ I admitted. ‘I’m no detective, Tristan’ – his name felt unfamiliar to me, and my tongue seemed to tease it out – ‘I’m not sure I know where to begin, but I must – for Madeleine’s sake. I must somehow find a way to the truth.’ And with that I bid him goodnight and good hunting and let myself into my room.

  I am dreaming of Gerald, and whilst I ache with awareness that it is just that, simply a dream and as such unsustainable, my heart is tumid with happiness. Gerald’s face, perfectly conjured in intimate detail, leans towards me, his lips slightly apart beneath the dense hairs of his moustache, as he presses them to my cheek …

  I woke with a gasp, my fingers brushing the icy impression that scalded the soft flesh just above my jawline. I scrabbled to sit up, fighting to free myself from the tangle of sheets sticking to my damp body. It was then tha
t I saw it: my open door. In my heart of hearts, I knew it was not Gerald who had visited me.

  Ignoring the flutter of unease, I forced myself out of bed, thinking only of Lucien and what I might learn, rather than the fear his unnatural abilities provoked. Even so, my fingers trembled as I tightened the belt of my wrapper and stepped into the shard of light that cut across my carpet, my feet shunting forwards.

  Sheers stood just beyond my room, coiled for action.

  ‘Your door opened of its own accord not five minutes ago,’ he said by way of greeting.

  ‘Lucien,’ I whispered. A thread of excitement stitched through me. We both reacted when we heard a door creak open on the nursery landing, and I emitted a small mew of relief as I saw Annie scampering down the stairs, her bare feet tugging from the treads.

  ‘My door opened.’

  ‘As did mine,’ I informed her. She nodded, keen yet wary.

  ‘What now?’ Sheers asked.

  The wall lights began to flicker and dance. Glacial air swept around us. My spine tingled as I recalled the touch of those icy lips on my cheek.

  ‘He must be here,’ I gasped.

  ‘He is.’ Annie glided between us, her focus fixed before her.

  ‘Dear God, you can see him?’ Tristan demanded, but she did not respond.

  The wall lights began to buzz, as if agitated wasps were thrumming against the etched glass of their shades. They dipped and flared the length of the landing. The bulb nearest me popped and died, with the next one down following in quick succession. Pooling darkness replaced pulsing radiance.

  ‘What the …’ But Sheers’ question died as the next light blew, then the next, and the next, until only silver moonlight lit our end of the corridor. Annie drifted forwards, drawn to the artificial golden glow that remained, but as she drew abreast of the next wall sconce, it too fizzled and died. Entranced, she moved on.

  ‘Breadcrumbs!’ Tristan exclaimed. ‘She’s following the blown lights. He’s leading her somewhere.’

  With mounting excitement, he snatched up his camera and thrust it into my hands, before heaving the gramophone up into his arms, his muscles strained by its cumbersome width and weight. Wincing with effort he limped towards me, urging me to pursue Annie, who was now disappearing down the main staircase. I felt a niggling concern over how he would manage the contraption on the stairs with his leg, so I slowed my descent until he safely reached the bottom.

  We were just in time to see Annie disappear from the hall into the new wing.

  ‘After her,’ Tristan hissed through gritted teeth, sweat beading his brow.

  The marble tiles were blisteringly cold against the bare soles of my feet, incentive enough to fly across them, leaving Sheers in my wake, his laboured breaths echoing in the darkness. Annie stopped before the smoking room, her hands hanging at her sides. The door creaked inwards.

  ‘Did you see that?’ My heart was in my throat as Sheers wheezed to a standstill beside me, as stunned as I was by what we had just witnessed. The brass horn knocked his chin as he shifted the weight of the gramophone. Shoulder to shoulder, we advanced.

  Annie stood in the centre of the room. I called her name, and she swung to face me. The moonlight spilling through the blank windows threw into relief the confusion scrawled across her features.

  ‘Is Lucien here?’ I asked, half-expecting a spectral figure to materialise before me – almost longing one would – but she shook her head.

  Behind me, Tristan set down the gramophone. A couple of seconds later, the chandelier burst into light, causing me to cry out, but he sheepishly admitted responsibility – he had spotted the light switch by the door.

  I put the box brownie upon a chair and took a moment to absorb my surroundings. It was the first time I had ever set foot in the smoking room, having only previously managed a glimpse from the doorway as Madeleine whisked me around that first day. It had the feel of an exclusive gentlemen’s club, with its oak-panelled walls, its leather wingback chairs and chesterfield sofas. A grey-veined marble fireplace dominated the far end of it, the two picks crossed like sabres above its mantel, testimony to Sir Arthur’s mining fortune. Heavy brocade curtains were swept back from the windows by ropes of cord as thick as my arm, revealing the black beyond, while the vast Abyssinian rug spread over the floorboards reeked of wealth.

  The room left me with an indelible impression of raw masculinity – bawdy jokes, cigar fumes and the sour taint of intoxicating spirits. As a woman, its ambience made my skin crawl, and the musty vapours of disuse compounded its lack of appeal.

  ‘Why are we here?’ I asked Annie.

  As if in answer to my question, the chandelier began to flicker and fade, before beaming again. There was a curious charge in the room and the air around us began to agitate in a most peculiar manner. My heart quickened as the chandelier stuttered and dipped again, only to explode into light a second later. Behind me, Tristan switched on the gramophone, and the shellac disc began to rotate slowly on the deck.

  ‘Do you see anything, Annie?’ he asked, his voice low. Annie shook her head, her crinkled red hair fizzing around her shoulders. Her eyes narrowed, as she watched the chandelier pulse above us.

  ‘But he’s trying to tell us something,’ she said.

  ‘What? What’s so important about this room?’ I whispered.

  The chandelier hummed as it once again regained its glow, dazzling us with its brilliance.

  ‘Miss Marcham?’

  I spun round, startled by the unexpected interruption. Mrs Henge stood in the doorway, her face pinched, her mouth puckered like a drawstring purse, her eyes scanning the room, certain we were up to no good.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I gasped, my cheeks bearing the flush of a naughty child caught red-handed.

  ‘I heard Annie leave her room. When she failed to return I decided it might be best to see what she was up to.’ She scowled at the maid, who cast her eyes to the floor. ‘I didn’t want her getting into any mischief.’ She inserted a droll note into her voice, but the smile she summoned was malicious. ‘May I ask what you’re doing in here?’

  Tristan came to my rescue.

  ‘It’s part of my investigation,’ he said, returning to the gramophone, the disc still spinning slowly on its top. ‘But I think we’re done now.’

  ‘It is very late to be running around the house,’ she replied, her brows beetling as Tristan pressed a switch to stop the record’s movement. ‘I wouldn’t want her ladyship to be disturbed. She is still recovering, after all – it is essential she gets her rest.’

  Sheers hoisted the device up into his arms, tipping it against him. ‘Quite.’ His eyes slid my way as he headed for the door. Mrs Henge stepped aside to let him pass.

  I went to retrieve the box brownie, but the housekeeper beat me to it, striding into the room, the knotted cord of her dressing gown swinging from her waist like a hangman’s noose. She picked the camera up, turning it in her hands before passing it to me.

  ‘You shouldn’t meddle with things you don’t understand, Miss Marcham.’

  ‘Lucien Brightwell means us to find the truth, Mrs Henge.’

  ‘Lucien Brightwell is dead. Should you not leave him be?’

  ‘He will not leave us be.’

  It was Annie that answered her. To my surprise, the housekeeper’s austerity wavered for a second, as if she saw something in the young girl’s face that inspired fear.

  ‘I have served this family for most of my adult life. I will not have their peace disturbed, and I will do whatever necessary to ensure their best interests are met – as I have always done.’

  There was no disguising the implicit threat. I held her steady gaze until, with a smirk, she broke away to wait by the door, her finger resting on the light switch, a grey eyebrow hiked. I brought my palm to the small of Annie’s back and guided her from the room.

  The two of us didn’t speak as we hurried down the corridor, our feet tacky on the harsh marble. As we crossed underneat
h the arch into the hall I looked back. Through the folds of shadow, I saw Mrs Henge close the smoking-room door. With a furtive glance our way, she extracted her ring of keys from the pocket of her dressing gown. Selecting one, she twisted it in the lock and turned to walk away.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  As much as I tried, I couldn’t get back to sleep. I rose when the first rays of dawn filtered through the tramlines of my curtains. I washed and dressed myself before peeking outside. Unperturbed by the striking red sky that greeted me, I slipped on a fitted tweed jacket, having decided a brisk walk and some restorative fresh air might help untangle my thoughts.

  The heels of my shoes clicked lightly on the marble flags as I crossed the hall floor into the vestibule. The great bolts on the front door grated loudly in protest as I pulled them back, bemoaning their early start. I headed out through the porch, down the steps and onto the drive, pausing only to debate which route to take.

  The density of the mist rising from the dank parkland discouraged my initial plan to stroll out into the wilds. I decided instead to cut through the cobbled courtyard to the side of the house and head to the rear garden, its gravelled paths being far more practical than the dew-laden meadows. As I reached the courtyard’s brick archway I saw Maisie at the back door, already dressed in her black and white uniform, accepting the contents of a basket from an older woman, who wore sensible sturdy shoes and a rather shabby overcoat, with a small but neat hat on her head.