by Anita Frank
I did not dwell on the topic for long. I was intent on devoting my powers of analysis, such as they were, to the material provided by Mrs Probert. I had been left shaken to the core by the defiling of poor Miss Scott. I now understood why Mrs Henge had spat on Sir Arthur’s grave, and I had a powerful urge to do the same thing. I hoped he was rotting in hell somewhere, and I was glad no flowers adorned his tomb – a man like that did not deserve to be remembered. I could only imagine the torment the poor woman must have endured realising the assault had left her with child. But, as Mrs Probert had gone to great pains to point out, that child had never been to Greyswick – so how could it possibly be the dead baby in the cradle?
It made no sense to me whatsoever and raised a daunting question – had there been a further baby at the house that we weren’t aware of? Or – and here I heard Mr Sheers’ words, whispering harpies, in my ear – perhaps Annie had made a mistake. How I longed to make sense of it all!
Maisie greeted me as I entered the hall. She was obviously intrigued by my visit to her mother and gabbled away trying to elicit the reason for the call – once again I marvelled at the disparity between the two of them. I side-stepped her avid enquiries, mildly amused by her ill-concealed frustration, but it couldn’t be helped – she would just have to sulk. Mr Sheers, she informed me when I asked, was to be found in the study. Handing over my coat, I went to find him.
He had certainly made himself at home since my last visit, rearranging the furniture to the edge of the room so he could spread upon the floor great tracts of architectural drawings – intricately produced line diagrams on mushroom-coloured paper – held down at the corners by ornaments purloined from around the room.
He had been trying to work out the possible significance of the smoking room, but from what he could see, there was nothing to differentiate it from the rest of the house: it utilised the same materials and had the same cavity wall structure. It appeared there was no benefit to this line of investigation.
I then brought him up to date with my own disappointing discoveries. I shared my discomforting intelligence with awkward embarrassment, and he received it in similar fashion. I found his muttered choice comments about Sir Arthur rather heartening.
‘So, we’re no further along then?’ he concluded.
‘It would appear not. Miss Scott deserves our absolute sympathy, but she had the baby away from here. I just don’t see how it can be the same one that Annie saw.’
‘And you’re sure Annie … well, you’re sure there can be no mistake?’
‘I knew you’d say that.’
‘But we do only have her say-so that there even was a dead baby.’
‘Scandalous things have happened under this roof.’
‘I’m not calling that into doubt. I’m questioning the detail.’
‘Well, don’t. I can’t profess to understand it all either, but I do know that I have utter trust in Annie.’ My hands flew up. ‘Ugh! This is all so bizarre. How can we ever hope to make sense of it all, when we’re dealing with the ghost of a child and his perceptions of past events?’
‘Well, if not Annie, maybe Lucien himself made a mistake.’ He barked with laughter. ‘Good God, listen to me! Oh, the credulity I have come to.’
I smiled at that and experienced a tweak of curiosity as to what he may have been like before France, before the war. What would his life be now if an Austrian duke hadn’t been shot and an antiquated arrangement of alliances hadn’t dragged us all into years of mindless bloodshed? One thing was for sure, he wouldn’t have been sitting in this awful house with me investigating the spirit activities of a dead child. It was absurd. Perhaps the only way to survive it all was to laugh. If I started crying, I feared I would never be able to stop.
We were interrupted by a knock at the door and Annie burst into the room bright with excitement, pleading for something to write on. Tristan, somewhat bemused, hurried behind the desk and after a short search discovered a carbon copy writing pad in a drawer. He tossed it onto the leather-inlaid surface sending the loose sheaf of blue carbon paper floating to the floor.
Annie gratefully accepted the pen he found, and I joined them at the desk as she wrote out an address. What struck me as odd was her writing. I can’t say I had much experience of Annie’s handcraft, but I had on occasion surveyed the laundry book at home, which she was responsible for. I was baffled to see the neat writing I had encountered in the lists of linens and clothing replaced by the untidy hand now scrawled across the ivory notepaper. I had little time to ruminate, however, for I was soon too distracted by the words themselves: Ivy House, Silver Road, Hackney.
‘What on earth has that got to do with anything?’ I asked her, as she set down the fountain pen.
‘It’s an address,’ Mr Sheers observed – I thought somewhat unnecessarily.
‘But how is it relevant?’
Annie shifted her weight and chewed at her bottom lip, trying to make sense of it herself. In the end she admitted she wasn’t sure what it meant, just that Billy seemed to think it was of possible importance – it was an address he knew to be linked to Miss Scott.
‘Doesn’t he know any more than that?’ I was rather irritated he had given us such a paltry piece of information and I couldn’t see how it played into the mystery that was unfolding. I wondered whether there was something of greater value to be gleaned from the young man and suggested to Annie that it might be best if I spoke to him directly. She blushed and mumbled that Billy had already left, apologising for failing to get anything further from him. I made a poor show of hiding my frustration.
‘Look, it’s not the end of the world.’ Tristan ripped the address from the pad. ‘I’ve got to travel to London tomorrow anyway. I should be able to fit in a trip to Hackney while I’m there. Why don’t I go and see what I can discover?’ He shot me a broad grin. ‘It’ll be an adventure.’
‘What are you doing in London?’ I asked, disheartened by the prospect of his unexpected departure. It was not that I had come to rely on Mr Sheers’ support, but I couldn’t deny I drew some comfort knowing Annie and I were no longer alone in our pursuit of the truth.
Perhaps picking up my alarm, he reassured me with a gentle smile that he would be back at Greyswick by the evening. He had a medical appointment – with his ‘leg quack’ – which he could not miss. He already intended to pick up some more camera film from his supplier in Clerkenwell, so a diversion to Hackney, though unexpected, was not completely out of his way. He would still be back and ready for action should Lucien indulge in any further midnight mayhem.
I felt his gaze rest upon me as he concluded his speech, though I chose not to meet it – instead I busied myself picking up the dropped sheet of blue carbon paper.
As I opened the pad to reinsert it, I discovered a brief missive, its faint blue writing revealing it to be a copy of a letter written by Sir Arthur himself, unfiled and forgotten.
I might have once deemed it inappropriate to read a dead man’s correspondence, but the name of the addressee caught my attention and I knew I could not afford this letter any privacy.
My eyes flew over the lines, my chest tightening with each astounding word, until, quite breathless from shock, I reached the final flourish of his signature. My hand began to shake as I cast my eye back to the date at the top. The transformation in my demeanour had not gone unnoticed; Tristan asked me what was wrong.
‘This is a dismissal letter written by Sir Arthur.’
‘Dismissal of whom?’
‘Miss Scott. And if I’m not mistaken, it was written the day before he died.’
Chapter Forty-Eight
I was in time to take breakfast with Mr Sheers the next morning. We were huddled at the far end of the table when Lady Brightwell and Miss Scott joined us. I tried so very hard not to look at the fluttery companion any differently as she fussed about her ladyship, but it was difficult not to think of her as she would have been all those years ago – a pretty, young maid encountering a lecherous master. N
early thirty years later that same master would draw up an insouciant dismissal without consideration for what she’d suffered, let alone the lifetime of service she had dedicated to his wife.
It seemed safe to presume the letter had been presented the very day it was written – the author and addressee had both been under the same roof after all. But Sir Arthur was never able to enforce his decision – he was dead almost before the ink had dried, trapped in the mangled wreckage of his motorcar. Had it simply been overlooked? Had Miss Scott kept its contents secret? Had Lady Brightwell simply chosen to prolong her trusted servant’s employment – which begged the question why had the letter been written in the first place?
Its discovery had thrown up so many questions. The gentle servant with her bird-like stature and quirky idiosyncrasies was a far more complex creature than any of us appreciated. How could she have remained under this roof after what had happened, bowing and scraping to the perpetrator of the heinous crime? Perhaps it was the threat of being dismissed without references, and the associated fear of impaired prospects that forced her to stay and suffer in silence. The very thought of it all made me feel quite ill, and as I watched her now, my heart went out to her.
She seemed out of sorts this morning, more distracted than usual, proving a butterfingers with the serving spoons, spilling food onto Lady Brightwell’s plate and sloshing tea into her saucer.
On any other day, such carelessness would have provoked the old lady to caustic comment, but today she too was subdued, as if she had absorbed the unhappiness radiated by the servant who had become her friend. She had no harsh words, no bitter complaints or exasperated chastisements. Instead she induced her ‘not to worry’ and that there was ‘no harm done’ though later she eyed me with blatant distaste, as if she held me to blame for the poor woman’s discord. And perhaps I was.
Tristan finished his breakfast and begged us to excuse him, so he might catch his train. The prospect of his imminent departure at last brought a spark to Lady Brightwell, but it was quickly extinguished by the assurance he would return in time for dinner. She entreated him not to rush back on her account.
Miss Scott ate very little and spoke even less. She nibbled half-heartedly at a slice of toast but soon abandoned it and instead, looking most dejected, supped a single cup of tea while Lady Brightwell finished her breakfast. In the end she whispered into her mistress’s ear, who nodded in agreement. Casting me a scant glance, Miss Scott rose from the table, explaining she was plagued by a headache and was off to take some powders to alleviate it. I expressed my sympathies and wished her a speedy recovery.
‘She is unhappy today,’ Lady Brightwell said when she was gone, pinning me with an accusatory stare that had me wondering whether she might be privy to her companion’s secrets.
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘This insistence of yours – stirring up the past – it does no good, Miss Marcham. I am at a loss to understand exactly what it is you hope to achieve.’
‘The truth, Lady Brightwell. Isn’t that all any of us can hope to strive for?’
‘Ahhh, but whose truth, Miss Marcham?’
‘This house has become a repository of secrets and lies, Lady Brightwell.’
She leant forward, the tiny muscles about her eyes pinching. ‘I thought you were here to chase ghosts?’
‘Perhaps they are all the same – ghosts, secrets, lies. Just the residue of long-forgotten crimes.’
‘Pah!’ She pushed herself to her feet, snatching up her stick. She glared at me with utter contempt as she made her way to the door, her cane stabbing the rug, a precursor to each shuffling step.
‘There are no phantoms in this house, Miss Marcham, only the ones you brought with you.’ She stopped at the door. ‘How many people must you upset before you realise you are doing no good here? I will not tolerate this upheaval within my household for much longer, no matter what my son, or your sister, might say. This is my home and always will be. Your malicious intrigues are not welcome. Your time here, my dear, is drawing to a rapid close.’
She slammed the door behind her, leaving me to choke on the vaporous hostility she so effortlessly expelled.
I was determined not to be beaten. I was in a steely mood by the time I left the dining room. I stood in the hall waiting for Annie to bring me my coat and hat, determined to be industrious, determined to leave no stone unturned, and there was one stone that I could investigate on my own.
Abandoning Annie to her plethora of chores, I struck out down the drive at a smart pace. Fired by irritation, I made short work of the walk to the village. I wasted no time turning the twisted ring of the lychgate, letting myself into the churchyard. I found my way back to Sir Arthur’s weather-worn tomb, and I walked around it until I found the carved words I sought. Just to make sure there was no mistake I scrubbed away the green algae that had colonised the stone facing until the inscription was distinct and the implication unmissable.
A sturdy breeze ruffled the long grass about my feet, lifting the branches of the holly tree by the graveyard wall. I was right. The letter that should have turned Miss Scott out into the street, banishing her from Greyswick for ever, had been written the day before its author, the man who had raped her and fathered her child, had died in a terrible accident.
An unpleasant taste of bile stuck in my craw. Coincidence, perhaps.
But I had stopped believing in coincidences a long time ago.
I could not bring myself to return to Greyswick immediately. The possible implications of all I had learnt were bearing down on me, an unshakable burden, and I needed time to think. So I walked, without direction, across the fields, and into the woods, deliberating over all I knew. I could not avoid returning to the house indefinitely though, and as the morning slipped seamlessly into the afternoon, I found myself tracking back into the estate, past the now familiar meadows, until Greyswick itself reared before me, beckoning me back into its corridors of shame.
It was Maisie who dashed into the hall to greet me, relieved that I had returned in the nick of time, because Mr Sheers was on the telephone. I had an inkling he had made a discovery – otherwise I could see no reason for him to call, not when he was due back in a few hours’ time. She trotted after me as I headed to the study. I thrust my coat and hat into her waiting arms and closed the door behind me.
The receiver was lying on the desk. I slid into Sir Arthur’s swivel chair and lifted it to my ear, drawing the ebony body of the candlestick telephone towards me. I positioned myself before the mouthpiece.
‘Stella, is that you?’ Tristan’s words spilled from him with quick-fire rapidity. ‘I had to telephone, I couldn’t wait until I got back to tell you.’
His excitement, palpable even over the hiss of the telephone line, was infectious, and an irrepressible thrill bubbled inside me as I asked him what had happened.
‘I went to the address in Hackney. Stella, it’s a Salvation Army home for unmarried mothers.’
It made perfect sense. Mrs Probert was convinced Mrs Henge would have made the necessary arrangements and her options would have been limited. The home in Hackney would have been the best idea – care for Miss Scott at the end of her confinement, access to medical attention during the birth, and no doubt a grateful couple waiting to adopt at the end.
‘But, Stella, there’s more. I managed to charm the matron – a financial incentive goes a long way these days – and she checked the records for me.’
‘And?’ Desperate to hear the rest, I almost wished I could somehow transport myself through the network of lines so that I could hear it all face to face.
‘She found a Miss Ruth Scott in the records. The dates are a match. She delivered a healthy baby …’
There was a tantalising pause. I pulled the telephone closer to me, pressing the receiver tighter to my ear, fearful that whatever Tristan was about to impart would become garbled by the static and lost.
‘The adoption of the baby had been arranged, but Stella �
� it never took place.’ Tristan’s voice dropped. ‘Stella, Miss Scott left … and she took the baby with her.’ There was another pregnant pause. I could almost picture him in my mind’s eye, summoning the courage to tell me the rest, wetting his lips to speak the words. ‘Stella … she had a son. Miss Scott gave birth to a baby boy.’
The line rasped and clicked as we lapsed into a loaded silence. Two babies. Two boys. Two Brightwell baby boys. My mind raced back over what I had been told – Lady Brightwell’s son delivered late, while Miss Scott’s son had presumably been delivered on time. Two births, almost coinciding.
‘What did she do with him? What did she do with her baby?’
‘Don’t you see, Stella?’
I could tell from the pleading note in his voice that he didn’t want to say it out loud, he wanted me to spare him that, to spare him the horror of putting into words exactly what had happened in this house all those years ago. But I wouldn’t say it, I couldn’t. It was too horrible to contemplate, the ramifications – ramifications which would have a profound effect on the one person I loved above all other living souls – were too far-reaching. But the teasing fragments of information, those colourful shards of gossip, supposition and deduction, were beginning to settle themselves into position, creating a telling picture. I closed my eyes. I would not be the one to say it.
Sensing my reluctance, Tristan’s voice came once again through the line, the realisation formed in his mind slipping unbidden into my ear, worming its way into my brain.
‘What if she brought him with her, Stella, back to Greyswick …’
His words tapered off, his courage failing him. In that split second, we had the chance to remain in blissful ignorance, to ignore the facts and walk away, leaving the pieces of the puzzle scattered behind us, an unformed truth. But he did not hold his tongue, he would not keep his own counsel.
‘What if she brought her son back … and hid him in plain sight?’
I clung to the edge of the desk. Dear God, could he be right?