Lost Among the Living

by Simone St. James

  Martin nodded. “They’ve never liked us in the village. Mother has never tried to ingratiate herself, I’m afraid, and Father only bothers with his wealthy friends. When Mother hired David Wilde as her man of business, it put the final nail in the coffin.”

  “David Wilde is disliked so much?” I asked. “Just because he has one hand?”

  An expression of discomfort flitted across Martin’s face. “Let’s just say no one in town approves of Mr. Wilde. What else do our happy neighbors say of us?”

  I stared down at my hands in my lap. “That your sister haunts the woods,” I replied. “That the children won’t play there.”

  That brought a frown from him. “False,” he declared. “Franny wandered the woods, yes, but she was terrified of the town children when she encountered them. They bullied her mercilessly. I can’t imagine she’d come back from the grave to seek them out now.”

  “They say they’ve seen her,” I persisted, embellishing a little so I wouldn’t have to admit that the one who had seen her was me. “And they say she has a dog.”

  Martin turned his head sharply on his pillow and looked at me. “Now, that’s interesting,” he said. “That they’re still talking about Princer.”

  I blinked at him in surprise. “Princer? There truly was a dog?”

  “No,” he replied. “There wasn’t a dog.” He saw the confusion on my face and added, “There was only a dog in Franny’s mind, do you see?”

  “So it was one of her hallucinations,” I said. It made sense, then, why Dottie would deny the dog’s existence at the inquest.

  “Princer was different,” Martin said. “She imagined him, yes. But he was different. He appeared later. He came through the door, like the others, but Franny trusted him. He was her ally. I think she conjured him in an effort to soothe herself, to bring herself comfort.” He shook his head. “I’m not explaining it right. It’s so hard to make someone understand who didn’t live with Franny. Her delusions became so real after a while.”

  “You’d be surprised,” I said, thinking of Mother and her viscount, the illusion she summoned every time she felt helpless or distressed. “So if the dog was a hallucination, it couldn’t have killed the man who died in the woods that day.”

  “I don’t know.” Martin turned his head back and stared at the ceiling, his expression beginning to close down the same way it had the last time we’d talked of Franny. “I wasn’t here.”

  “David Wilde says he doesn’t believe Franny was suicidal,” I persisted, thinking of Martin saying the same thing himself just before he fainted.

  “Oh, yes.” Martin’s voice was turning hard. “Wilde always did like to pick at her and inspect the pieces. He wanted to know what made Franny tick.”

  I watched him carefully, his pain-etched face in the dim light. “And what did you want?” I asked him softly.

  “To protect her, of course,” he replied. “I may not have been much of a brother—but I was her brother, wasn’t I? What a failure I made of that. What a failure we all made of giving her any kind of a life. An imaginary dog gave her more comfort than I did—than any of us did.” He turned on his pillow again and looked at me. “I know I said I was glad it’s over, Cousin Jo, but really I’m grateful she’s done with all of this. That she doesn’t have to deal with the sorry lot of us anymore.”

  “You don’t mean that,” I said.

  “Don’t I?” He closed his eyes. “I’m tired, Cousin. I have to wish you good night.”

  When I left the room, I opened the door to find a scattering of leaves, brown and dry, in the hallway. The air was chilled. I stood for a long moment, listening, my heart pounding, my breath shallow in my chest. Finally I stooped and picked up a leaf, running my thumb over its waxy surface. It began to crumble in my hand, releasing the tangy smell of autumn. I was afraid, but I was excited, too, vindicated. Real. The leaves are real. I raised the leaf to my face and inhaled, closing my eyes.

  “He didn’t mean it,” I said to the girl who wasn’t there. “He didn’t.”

  There was no answer but silence.

  I let my hand fall and dropped the leaf. When I opened my eyes again, the leaves were gone—all of them, the ones on the floor, the one I had held and dropped. I still smelled the tang in my nose, but there were no leaves in the hallway at all.

  Her delusions became so real after a while.

  Why not, after all? I was surrounded by madness. Why not me? Perhaps madness had its uses.

  Because Martin had said many things, some of which he would regret. But he had said something that lodged within me, that fit with what I already knew.

  He’d said his sister was not suicidal.

  I wonder if someone did her in.

  And if someone had killed her, there was only one person to find the truth. Me.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The next time Dottie released me early in the afternoon, I remembered the photographer’s shop in town and Alex’s camera, which I kept packed in its case in my room. I pulled it from the bottom of my trunk and hefted it to the floor, opening the fine leather case and examining the camera inside.

  Alex had bought the camera in 1917, while home on leave. It had been, I recalled, a curious purchase. Alex wasn’t a spendthrift; nor was he overly fond of gadgets, though he was excellent at handling them. But the camera had arrived by delivery one day at the Chalcot Road flat, which I had moved into when we married. Alex had seemed almost surprised to see it, as if he’d forgotten he’d ordered it. “I thought we might take a trip to the countryside while I’m home,” he said when I questioned him, buttoning his collar with his long, nimble fingers and reaching for a tie so he could take me out to dinner. “I like the idea of taking my own photographs.”

  Our money had been pinched already by then—and I’d been hoping for a child, which would strain it further—but Alex had come home so exhausted, and he bought things so rarely, that I did not argue. I still did not argue when a custom leather case came by delivery the next day; I merely put the two items together and left them where Alex could use them whenever he wished.

  I forgot about the camera after that. Having Alex home was intoxicating, and I had room in my mind for little else. His leave was only of two weeks’ duration. How exactly we spent that time, I could not later recall. I only remembered the smell of him, the feel of him, the way he would run his fingers gently through my hair, sometimes rubbing the strands between his fingertips as if reassuring himself I was real. War had changed him; I knew he had seen things he did not talk about, and he often seemed as if something unbearably heavy weighed him down. There were bruises, new and old, beneath his skin, which he claimed came from the juddering discomfort of an airplane—he had gone into RAF training almost immediately upon enlisting. Still, he would trace the back of his finger beneath my jaw or the lobe of my ear, or brush his hand over the back of my neck, even as he read the newspaper and sipped his tea, as if his hands wished to touch my skin of their own accord.

  The trip to the countryside never happened. Thinking back on it now, I wondered whether Frances Forsyth was dead even then, whether Alex had been to see Martin in the hospital, or whether those events were still in the future. I no longer knew all the pieces of my husband’s life.

  Sometime after Alex had gone back to France, I found the camera and put it away in a closet, unable to look at it. I filled my time with volunteering, rolling bandages and sending care packages to soldiers with the local ladies’ circle as the war rolled on.

  Now, four years later at Wych Elm House, I looked closely at the camera for the first time. It was a heavy thing, a thick black box with a handle on the top, a small lens in the front, and an eyepiece in the back. It was encased in dark leather, the texture patterned under my hands, a circled crest with NO. 2 BROWNIE stamped into the leather on the back. A latch at the side seemed to release the front mechanism and swing the came
ra open, but I did not touch it. Beneath the latch was a knob of silver metal—used, presumably, to advance the film through the chamber while taking photographs.

  I picked the camera up, studied it, shook it and listened to the insides. I had no idea if it had any film in it; I didn’t recall Alex acquiring any and loading it. I put the camera down and picked up the custom leather case, turning it over, running my hands over it. For the first time it struck me as curious that the camera had a case at all, since it seemed to be a self-contained unit, protected by leather and equipped with a handle. I pondered it for a moment. The case looked a little like a valise—perhaps it was easier to carry than the camera itself, and protected the camera from wind and rain.

  When I opened the case and looked inside, I noticed lettering stitched into the lining. I tilted it toward the light. HANS FABER.

  I frowned. Perhaps Alex had bought the case secondhand. Had both the camera and the case belonged to Hans Faber? Why, then, had they been delivered separately? Where had Alex met Hans Faber, and why had he forgotten about the camera almost as soon as it arrived? And why had he bought a camera from a German in 1917, the middle of the war?

  I picked up the camera again, feeling the weight and heft of it. A pulse of excitement went through me. I could use this. I had never considered it before, but if I could buy film and a means of developing it, I could take my own photographs.

  The leaves, I thought. If I could take a picture of the leaves, I could prove they’re real.

  The mist that came to me in the night—I could capture it. Or possibly even Frances herself.

  I’m not mad. I’m not.

  I put Alex’s camera back in its case, snapped the latches shut, and left the room to ask if I could borrow the motorcar.

  • • •

  As it was a Thursday, the photographer’s shop in Anningley was open. A bell over the door tinkled as I entered and looked about the empty studio, the camera in its case in one hand. The bare room that made up the front of the shop contained only a few easels displaying portraits and two large worktables scattered with tools, debris, and camera parts.

  I heard the click of a door and a man came from the back room, looking at me over the rim of his half-glasses. He was perhaps sixty. His hair had gone a bright, snowy white and was brushed thickly back from his forehead. His skin was florid, his body short and rather heavy-looking, as if secretly made of pewter.

  “Good afternoon,” he said to me. “You’ve just caught me, I’m afraid. I’m about to close for the day.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, fighting my disappointment. “I can come back Monday, I suppose. It’s just I’ve come from Wych Elm House and—”

  “Yes, I know who you are,” the man said with some amusement. “Mrs. Baines at the post office has told everyone all about you.” He glanced at the case in my hand. “I’m Samuel Crablow,” he said, holding out a hand for me to shake. “And I don’t mind helping out such a lovely young woman at the end of the day.”

  “Nonsense.” I laughed, noticing the interested gleam in his eyes and seeing through him perfectly. “You only want to know what sort of camera I have in this case.”

  “Perhaps.” Crablow removed his reading glasses and tucked them in a front pocket. “Though I’d gladly photograph you—I think it would turn out very well. I don’t suppose I could talk you into sitting for a portrait?”

  I shook my head. “I came to ask you how to use my camera, not how to sit in front of one.”

  “Very well. You have a camera you don’t know how to use—I’m intrigued. Let me know how I can help you.”

  I explained briefly how I had come across the camera. Since he already knew of my widowhood from Mrs. Baines, it didn’t take much for him to understand.

  “And so you’d like to make use of this impulsive purchase of your husband’s,” he said, taking the case from me and setting it on one of the worktables. “Let’s see what we have. I can give you a few instructions, I’m sure.”

  I stood watching him, realizing that part of me had expected to be turned away, to have to argue that my whim was a serious one. “Thank you,” I said.

  But he had already forgotten my existence as he pulled the camera from the case and inspected it. “Interesting,” he said. “I see your husband bought this in 1916.”

  “Actually, it was the next year,” I said.

  “Yes, well. This is the 1916 make. It’s in excellent condition. There is no film in it. You open the case here,” he said, pressing the lever and peering inside the box when the door swung open. The insides of the camera looked impenetrable to me, but he pulled out his glasses and stared into it, making little sounds.

  “It looks perfectly functional,” he said at last. “I can teach you to use it in the space of a few minutes. Whether you have any artistry with it is up to you, I’m afraid. I have some film I can sell you, and when you’ve used the roll, you can come back here and I’ll develop the prints. I’ll have to charge you for that.”

  “Of course,” I said. I wasn’t sure I wanted Mr. Crablow seeing the things I hoped to capture. “Can you teach me to do it myself? The developing?”

  He gave me the sort of smile men have given women since time immemorial. “One thing at a time, my dear lady. I don’t wish to overwhelm you. Now, the case.” He put down the camera and took up the leather valise. “This is an interesting addition. I see a name here. Was your husband Hans Faber? I thought you were the wife of Mrs. Forsyth’s Manders nephew.”

  “I am,” I said. “I was. I don’t know who Hans Faber is. My only theory is that my husband bought the camera secondhand.”

  “It’s quite possible,” Crablow agreed. He turned the case over in his hands. “This is very finely made, and it’s custom fitted to the camera, which is not of standard valise dimensions. The leather is of the best quality. Whoever Mr. Faber is, or was, he invested a good penny in the creation of this case.”

  “I don’t understand what it’s for,” I said. “It seems to me that the camera stands on its own with no case at all.”

  “It does,” Crablow replied. “Mr. Faber went to some trouble for this.”

  “Does the case keep out the rain?”

  “Possibly, but it isn’t sealed with waterproof rubber. Besides, if one is using a camera in the rain—which I do not recommend—one can purchase a slick to prop over it, much like a mackintosh.” He studied the case again. “If I had to guess, Mrs. Manders, I would say that whoever carries this case is disguising his camera as a simple piece of luggage.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest and nodded. “So thieves won’t recognize it,” I said.

  “Perhaps. The other thing that strikes me is that there is no tripod included. If one is serious about taking photographs, a tripod is a logical piece of equipment.”

  My heart sank a little. Alongside paying for film and development, I did not think I could afford a tripod. Photography seemed to be an expensive hobby. “Can the photographer not take pictures by hand?”

  “Yes, of course. But the human hand is not as steady as you think. Your husband wasn’t an aspiring journalist, by any chance?”

  “No.”

  Crablow shrugged. “Well, it’s no matter. I happen to have a spare tripod here. You can borrow it for as long as you like.”

  I swallowed. “Thank you. You are very kind.”

  “It’s nothing. If you wish to repay me, you can suggest to Mrs. Forsyth that she bring the family in for another portrait.”

  “Another?” I asked, watching as he walked to his shelves and rifled through the boxes there. “You took a portrait of the Forsyths?”

  “Yes, just before the war. Before the girl died.” Crablow picked up a box, read the label, and came back to his worktable. “They’re not a popular family around here, I know. People still talk about what happened to the daughter and the dead man in the woods.
All I know about Frances Forsyth was that I had a difficult time making her sit still. But I was happy with the end result, though Mrs. Forsyth would not let me display it in my front window.”

  “Do you have a copy of the picture?” I asked him. “May I see it?”

  He glanced at me in surprise. “Yes, of course. I have it in my box of samples I show to private clients. Just over here.”

  He had mounted the photograph on thick pasteboard to make it easier to handle. He pulled it from a box of similar pictures and handed it to me.

  The family was posed in the large parlor, Wych Elm House’s most formal room, in front of the grand mantel. In the back stood Robert, younger, slimmer, his face blandly handsome and less puffy than it was now. Standing beside him, Dottie looked curiously softer, as if the years between had set the lines of her face in stone. Her hair was tied back as tightly as it always was. Seated in a chair in front of his father, Martin was a young man grown out of childhood, his shoulders thrown back, his eyes soft and staring directly at the camera, a confident smile on his face. This was the same Martin I had seen in Dottie’s picture of him in uniform, the Martin who looked almost nothing like the man today.

  Frances was placed beside her brother, seated on a chair in front of Dottie. She was perhaps twelve or thirteen, wearing a dress with puffed sleeves and a high lace collar. Her face stared out at me, the same face I’d seen in the small parlor—the high forehead, the clear, calm eyes. She was a few years younger than the girl I’d seen, wearing a different style of dress, her hair down around her shoulders and tied back with a ribbon, but she wore a string of pearls around her neck that I recognized. Her face wore no expression, and there were shadows under her eyes. Her gaze was serious and fathomless and somehow sad.

  I stared at her, captured in silver nitrate and printed on paper. I realized with a jolt that I didn’t just recognize her face—I knew her. I knew something of the fear she suffered, the isolation. I knew it because even though she was dead, she had made me see.