by Anita Frank
Lucien
I watched as those same sturdy legs turned and ran back through the doorway.
Lucien
I hung on for precious seconds then, defeated, I let go … sinking into oblivion.
Chapter Fifty
I am drowning, sinking down and down into the cold swirling waters, waiting for Gerald to escort me from this world to the next.
But then I am buoyed up, towards a pool of light shimmering on the rippling surface. An obscured face peers through the undulating skin of my watery grave.
It calls me back.
My chest exploded with a wrenching gasp as I jerked awake. Pinpricks of colour exploded and died before my eyes like dissipating fireworks, fading from the night sky. I blinked, trying to orientate myself. I wanted to move, but my head was a leaden weight and my limbs refused my will. Annie’s familiar freckled face hovered above me, her lips moving, and gradually I began to interpret the sound.
‘Miss? Are you all right, miss?’
I was lying on a chaise longue. I had no feeling below my neck and my mouth had an unpleasant metallic taste. I wet my lips.
‘Dr Mayhew …’
‘I know.’
My eyes blurred with unexpected tears. Though my body had been deadened and defeated by whatever immobilising drug he had shot into my veins, my emotional heart remained strong and vibrant, pumping raw fear.
‘Don’t let him take me.’
‘I won’t.’ Annie took my hand. ‘But you can’t stay here – an ambulance is on its way. We must hide you. Can you move?’
I thought I detected a twinge of life in my legs, but after an age of trying I was still lying motionless on the chaise, my head spinning, darkness swooping from the edge of my vision like a flock of crows. Terrified, I shook my head.
She patted my shoulder in a gesture meant to reassure, but the comfort was undone by her look of sheer panic.
‘No matter,’ she whispered. With a rustle, she got to her feet and crossed to where I could no longer see her.
‘Can you help her?’
Whoever was with us in the room was beyond my limited range of vision. I tried to raise my head, but I hadn’t the strength. My eyelids slid shut like a bank teller’s blinds, closing me off from the world. My breaths were shallow, and I knew I was fading again – it was easier to succumb than to try and forge against it.
I was roused by two strong arms shuffling under me, hefting me up. I landed against a khaki uniform jacket, redolent of tobacco.
‘Gerald,’ I whispered.
‘No, miss,’ Annie said. ‘It’s Billy, Billy’s here to help.’
Of course. How foolish of me. Gerald was dead – even in my drug-befuddled state I knew that, for that phantom pain was untouched. I was too weary to express any apology for the confusion. I surrendered to Billy’s arms and as oblivion repeated its insistent summons, I closed my eyes and offered it no resistance.
When I finally came to, the rich golden beams stretching into the room suggested evening was approaching. I groaned as I tried to move. My muscles ached as if they had been wrung out like a dish cloth, and darts of pain flew up my calves and thighs. With considerable effort, I hauled myself upright. I grabbed the edge of the sofa as a whirlpool of nausea swirled in my stomach.
‘You’re awake.’
Annie squatted at my feet, her white pinafore scooping between her knees, her keen eyes searching for residual signs of Dr Mayhew’s doping. I assured her I was much improved and pushed myself to my feet. I wobbled alarmingly. She steadied me, holding me firm until my sense of balance awoke from its drug-induced dormancy. Her suggestion that I perhaps sit down and rest a while longer seemed sensible and was delivered just as my knees gave way. I crashed back down upon the leather sofa. Gradually my equilibrium returned, and I ceased to feel like a bobbing pony on a speeding merry-go-round.
‘Goodness …’ I rubbed my eyes and tried to place myself – the fixtures of the room all vaguely familiar yet not quite within my grasp. And then I knew. ‘We’re in the smoking room,’ I declared, with a mix of horror and grim fascination.
‘I didn’t know where else to take you. They’d put you in the lady’s parlour. This was the nearest room.’
‘But Mrs Henge locked it up.’
‘There are many ways to open a locked door, miss.’
Annie moved over to the window, holding back the heavy swag of brocaded curtain to peek out. I remembered Madeleine saying this room afforded the best view of the driveway, and I realised with a shudder that Annie was on the look-out for the ambulance. The perilousness of my situation struck me anew.
I was living on borrowed time. I couldn’t hide for ever, and Dr Mayhew was a determined man. Whatever Lady Brightwell had written to my parents – whatever Madeleine had revealed – had placed me in terrific jeopardy. For months I had managed to resist his single-minded campaign to have my recovery facilitated by an institution, but now my ill-advised dalliance in a ghost story had provided fuel for his fire. My parents would no longer be swayed by Madeleine – not now she had revealed her own convictions. I was on my own. Alone – save for Annie Burrows.
My liberty now depended on the two of us finding a way out of this hopeless situation. The only escape route I could envisage was to reveal what had really happened in this house all those years ago. That truth and evidence of my sanity were now inextricably linked – the exposure of one would confirm the other. I had to prove I was not mad and securing justice for Lucien was the only way to do it.
Annie called for my attention at the sound of crunching gravel and the drone of an engine. I waited for her report with bated breath.
Her taut shoulders eased. ‘It’s only a taxi, miss.’ The dull ‘thuck’ of a closing door penetrated the room. ‘It’s Mr Sheers back, miss!’
I couldn’t contain my relief for here, at last, came reinforcements! Tristan would argue the case with Dr Mayhew, I knew he would, and an ex-officer would be harder to ignore than a perceived hysteric like myself. On weak legs, I staggered to the window.
Tristan placed his trilby before pushing back the side panel of his trench coat to delve into his trouser pocket for change. He counted the fare into the driver’s hand through the open window, before the cabbie wound up the glass and steered the taxi away.
‘He won’t know what’s happened,’ I said.
Annie began to sharply rap her knuckles against the glass. When Tristan failed to respond, I joined her, trying to get his attention, but he must have been too far away or otherwise distracted. He picked up his battered briefcase and began to limp towards the front door. He disappeared up the porch steps.
‘What do we do now?’
We couldn’t risk leaving the smoking room – no one knew we were here, and whilst I wanted nothing more than to run from Dr Mayhew, I knew I couldn’t leave the mystery of Greyswick unsolved. And where would I run to? I couldn’t run home, and I couldn’t run for ever. While my sanity was in question, I would never be safe from the good doctor’s ministrations or my parents’ misgivings. I had to quite literally lay this ghost to rest, to vindicate myself once and for all.
I longed to speak to Tristan. I needed to discuss with him the implications of his discovery. I was just debating how I might get to him without being caught when fate intervened.
Familiar voices leaked into the room, and from their rapid modulation, it was evident an argument was unfolding. Annie and I hurried to the locked door, straining to hear the growing dispute between Tristan and Dr Mayhew, brusquely interrupted by Lady Brightwell.
The voices clashed in anger, their words indistinguishable, muffled by the thick oak door, but as they got louder and nearer, the words became clear. Tristan demanded to know where I was, only to be rebuffed by Mrs Henge, whose strict tones had been added to the fray. His temper heightened, and I froze with dismay as Dr Mayhew informed him I was unwell and would be leaving shortly. He was adamant I could not be disturbed.
‘She was perfectly wel
l when I spoke to her on the telephone but a short while ago.’
‘Sadly, there has been a rapid deterioration in her condition, Mr Sheers. I do think it would be wise for you to concede to my medical experience in this instance. Poor Miss Marcham has been unwell since her return from France. We had hoped with sufficient rest she might make a full recovery, but it seems her time here has proved an intolerable strain. It’s just all been too much.’
‘I, for one, have seen no such evidence, Dr Mayhew. I would very much like to speak to Stella myself.’
‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible.’
‘What the devil have you done with her?’ There was a plaintive note in Tristan’s voice, and I pressed my palm against the door, willing him to come closer, to sense my presence. Lady Brightwell waded into the argument.
‘Mr Sheers, really, it is most advisable that you leave Dr Mayhew to his work. He has far more knowledge than anyone else in these matters. Miss Marcham has fooled us all with a show of stability but sadly that is all it is – a show. Her parents are deeply concerned for her well-being, Dr Mayhew would not be here otherwise.’
‘No.’ The single word was stubborn and bullish. ‘There is nothing wrong with Stella. I will see her – I demand to see her.’
‘My dear boy, it is beyond your authority to do so,’ Dr Mayhew informed him.
I wouldn’t – couldn’t – wait a minute longer.
‘Open the door!’ I urged Annie.
‘I can’t. I haven’t got the key.’
‘But you got in here!’
Without waiting for her answer, I hammered on the wood to summon Tristan’s attention. It worked. He shouted my name. Hurried footfalls and conflicting voices indicated a flurry of activity drawing towards us.
‘Stella?’
He was just beyond the thick barrier of oak. The handle rattled, twisting round but to no effect. He demanded the door was opened, but Mrs Henge denied his request. The wood shuddered as he landed his shoulder against it.
‘Open this door, I tell you!’
‘She is not in there, Mr Sheers. She cannot be.’
To refute the housekeeper’s statement, I banged again, calling Tristan’s name.
‘Open it, I tell you.’ The door bucked in its frame.
Clearly astonished, Mrs Henge was most vociferous in her assertion I had been left in the lady’s parlour.
‘I don’t care where you think you put her, Mrs Henge, she is clearly here now, and you’d best open this door without further delay or so help me I will break it down.’
To make his point, he slammed against it one more time. Lady Brightwell, alarmed now at the potential damage to be wrought, ordered Mrs Henge to unlock the door.
Annie and I stumbled back as the key clattered into the lock, and with a click, the door was thrust open. Tristan wasted no time barging past the housekeeper-cum-gaoler to reach me. He grabbed me by the arms, but the roughness of his action was countered by the sincerity of his concern, as he asked whether I was quite well and if I had been hurt in anyway.
‘Don’t let him take me,’ I whispered. With an almost imperceptible shake of his head, he relinquished his hold, but remained by me. Lady Brightwell and Miss Scott stood either side of Dr Mayhew, while Mrs Henge began to stalk around us, as if intending to outflank our position.
‘I see nothing wrong with Miss Marcham,’ Tristan said, ‘and I see no reason why she should be removed from this house against her will.’
‘Mr Sheers, I’m sure you nurse a belief these actions of yours are somewhat gallant but believe me when I say your gentlemanly intervention is unwarranted and unnecessary.’ Lady Brightwell punctuated her points with the tip of her cane which she tapped against the floorboards. ‘The girl’s parents want her back and Dr Mayhew here is to escort her home.’
‘I don’t believe for a moment home is where you will take me, Doctor.’ My voice was tight, and I hated the vulnerability that crept into it against my will.
‘You are unwell, Stella,’ he purred, like a hypnotist using suggestion to exert his will over a subject. ‘Now, all of this nonsense has to stop …’
He had inadvertently awakened the kraken.
The knocking started so faintly I almost missed it. While Dr Mayhew and Lady Brightwell continued to discuss the benefits of my removal, Annie caught my eye and tipped her head towards the soft sound emanating from the wood panelling by the fireplace. Tristan mirrored my confusion as he too detected the light telegraphic tapping. It was like a shy child tugging on a sleeve, begging for attention. My pulse skipped as I realised it was quite possibly just that. It grew louder and more insistent.
‘What is causing that noise?’ Lady Brightwell demanded at last.
‘I assure you it’s not water in the pipes,’ Tristan murmured.
‘It’s here …’ There was a pensive quality to Annie’s speech as she stepped forward, eerily transfixed on a particular panel, a slight smile playing at the edges of her mouth. ‘He’s found it.’ She turned to face us. ‘He’s found what he’s looking for.’
Lady Brightwell’s creped skin drained to the colour of weathered bone. Her grip tightened on her cane. ‘Who are you talking of, girl?’
Annie blinked in surprise. ‘Why, Lucien, of course. He knew it was here somewhere. Now he knows where.’
Miss Scott darted a look at Mrs Henge, and in that unguarded moment I saw something pass between them: a shared frisson of shock.
What sounded like a hammer blow resounded off the two-foot square of oak. ‘This is your malevolence at play,’ Dr Mayhew blustered, rounding on Annie. ‘Whatever witchcraft you’re engaging, I demand you stop at once.’
‘This is not witchcraft, Dr Mayhew,’ I assured him, invigorated by the strange energy in the room. ‘This is not Annie Burrows’ doing. This is Lucien Brightwell.’
Before the good doctor could protest further, a second blow sounded off the very same spot.
‘It’s there,’ Annie whispered. ‘We must look there.’
Wasting no time, Tristan crossed to the fireplace and lifted down one of the picks. I held his grim gaze. Taking an awkward step back, he swung the pick, hesitating for only a second before he brought it to bear. Its spiked head splintered through the wood, ringing against the brick beyond.
Lady Brightwell cried out in dismay, but Tristan paid her no heed. Instead he looked to Annie. She nodded. Dr Mayhew called out for him to stop, but Tristan either didn’t hear or didn’t care, for the pick crashed into the wall again. He grabbed hold of the fractured wood and yanked it clear, fragments of plaster clattering onto the floorboards. Hell-bent, he lifted the pick one more time.
There was an avalanche of masonry and a cloud of dust as the exposed brick shattered under the pick’s blow. Coughing, Tristan batted his hand to clear the air, before bending down to tug away at the loose debris until a decent-sized hole had formed, a miniature gateway to the crevice beyond. His shoulders stiffened as he peered into the darkness. With some difficulty, he plunged his hands into the cavity, and with utmost care, he withdrew his treasure.
It was a small bundle, a dust-encrusted lozenge, thickly draped in drab cobwebs with clearly little weight to it. The room was silent, the rest of us reduced to alabaster statues.
‘What is it?’ I whispered at last, making a guarded advance.
With extreme caution, he peeled back the top layer of fabric.
As the grimy exterior fell away, it revealed a brilliant array of blues and gold. My heart stopped.
I knew that blanket.
I had seen it once before, meticulously reproduced in a cherished drawing. Lucien Brightwell’s drawing.
Taking infinite care, Tristan unwound a further layer. With a ragged intake of breath, he laid the parcel upon the chesterfield and recoiled. My hand flew to my mouth, but too late to contain my moan of abject horror.
There, jutting up through the final fold, was a tiny, perfectly preserved, skeletal hand.
Chapter Fifty-One
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‘Well? You’re a doctor, aren’t you? What’s your professional opinion on that?’
Tristan’s voice was laced with bitterness. His question woke the rest of us from our horrified stupor. Dr Mayhew cleared his throat and with great reluctance advanced on the pathetic parcel. The atmosphere in the smoking room was so taut with expectation that it threatened to snap at any moment; we could only guess what the consequences would be.
I realised with a shudder that, deep down, I had expected this discovery. With it, all the tantalising clues fell into place. A bizarre calm spread over me, and when I looked at Annie, she too bore a serene expression, as if everything was unfolding exactly as she hoped. Except, of course, none of us had hoped to find a dead baby buried in the wall.
Dr Mayhew hovered over the sofa, building his professional courage before drawing back the remaining curtain of blanket, his pudgy fingers making light work of the leaden task. The fabric fell away, and the tiny skeletal figure lay fully exposed, tattered remnants of greyed clothing draping the pale bones. Lady Brightwell wheezed, while Miss Scott began to sob quietly beside her. Only Mrs Henge remained unmoved.
To my shame, I stared at the poor creature with morbid fascination, unable to look away. There was no mistaking it was a human baby – the swell of its tiny ribcage, its little legs and arms, its skull too big for the rest of its fragile body. Holding my breath, my heart slamming against my chest, I peered closer.
‘Its head …’ I murmured, ‘… it looks funny – misshapen, almost.’ It was perhaps a wretched observation to make, but the distortion was there for all to see, distinct and even to my inexperienced eye, unusual.
Mayhew tugged his crumpled handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiped his mouth before answering. ‘It’s a very young baby who no doubt suffered a difficult birth …’ He paused in his explanation as he shoved the pocket square back. A thick finger gestured to the sides of the skull. ‘The indentations you see there would be consistent with the use of forceps. The pressure that is exerted pushes the skull out of shape but of course, a baby’s bones aren’t hard like ours, they’re somewhat malleable. Over time – usually a few months – the bones settle themselves back into a normal appearance.’ He let out a sigh, punctuated with a pitying shake of his head. ‘Sadly, this baby didn’t live long enough for that to happen.’ Reaching forward, he replaced the blanket over the skeleton, restoring some dignity.