Lost Among the Living

by Simone St. James

I stared at his pale profile. “No. You never told me.”

  “I didn’t know you—I wasn’t sure you could handle it,” he admitted. “However, now you’ve asked. I was in the hospital when Alex disappeared, barely conscious most of the time. But it haunted me. The thought of him simply gone like that—it’s hard to get used to, in a different way than death, which I’ve seen plenty of. I started thinking about it, specifically about his plane.”

  “His plane?” I asked.

  “Yes. Did anyone see it go down? Who found it? How closely did they go over it? Was there some possibility, some clue that pointed in any direction? Anything at all? I was lying in bed with nothing to think about, nothing to do, and it tormented me. I kept having nightmares about his crashed plane, the cockpit splattered with blood and brains.” He stopped himself and stared at me. “Oh, God, Cousin, I’m sorry. I keep forgetting you weren’t over there with me, growing accustomed to it all. I’m an idiot.”

  “It’s all right,” I said. “I’d rather your honesty than Colonel Mabry’s pabulum speeches. Go on.”

  “When I was well enough, I made inquiries,” Martin said. “I had a few contacts, and I begged for favors. Alex was my beloved cousin, a heroic officer. I wanted to find answers for my family—et cetera, et cetera. There are certain phrases one can use when asking favors. I wrote letters from my hospital bed and used the hospital telephone a few times. I finally got the ear of someone in the RAF who found the file with the crash report. He had no authorization to send me a copy, but he read it to me over the telephone line from Berne.”

  “For God’s sake, what did it say?”

  “Not much,” Martin replied. He was looking off at the woods again now, though it had grown nearly too dark to see. The wind was blowing cold down the back of my neck. “It was the most frustrating thing. Alex’s flight that day was listed as a reconnaissance mission, though the objective was not recorded. He was not listed to fly with a gunner, which was a strange oversight—a pilot without a gunner can get into combat without being able to shoot back. Even on reconnaissance, a pilot should have been assigned a gunner, since it gave him a better chance to get back in one piece.”

  “So he flew alone?”

  “Yes. Odd, though not unheard of, especially at Alex’s level. He’d flown enough missions that I expect he could go without a gunner without question.”

  I tried to picture Alex flying a plane, as I often had. I pictured him in a pilot’s heavy coat and gloves, in the hat and goggles. He’d been good, of course; he was good at everything he did. He’d passed pilot school easily.

  Still lost in his own memories, Martin continued. “No one saw his plane shot down, at least no one on record. When he didn’t return, a second team, of two reconnaissance planes—this time with gunners—was sent to look for him. They found the plane crashed in the trees just beyond enemy lines, and one of them managed to get aground to look for him. They found his parachute gone, but no other sign of him.” He looked at me. “And there was no blood in the cockpit—that was specifically noted.”

  “So he was shot at, and he parachuted out when his plane started to go down.” Though it had been three years, I had never spoken in detail to anyone about Alex’s disappearance, and to do it now was a massive relief, as if a pressure around my rib cage had started to ease. “If there was no blood, then he was not injured when he jumped.”

  “Perhaps,” Martin agreed. “There was no one else in the plane to use the parachute. But I have to say, Cousin Jo, that it’s possible he was injured without leaving blood in the cockpit. Broken bones, bruises. A head wound can knock a man so hard he’s helpless as a baby.”

  I was quiet, staring into the dark.

  Martin continued. “And if he jumped in broad daylight in the middle of the German woods, where the hell did he go? Why didn’t he turn up anywhere? He’d be a valuable prisoner for the Huns—an RAF officer like him. His name should have appeared on prisoner lists.”

  “Alex had German blood,” I said. “He knew the language.”

  “Which just means he could have negotiated better treatment at one of their prisons if he was taken up. I had my contact do a thorough search, Cousin. Alex’s name does not appear in the records anywhere.”

  I pressed my fingers lightly to my forehead. The pressure from my rib cage seemed to have migrated there. “Alex could have been killed in those woods,” I said. “The enemy could have found him and shot him, buried him in an unmarked grave. If he had a head wound, he couldn’t have defended himself. For all I know, he took the chance to—” I clamped my mouth shut, my cheeks heating.

  “Took the chance to what?” Martin asked.

  To switch sides and join the German army. The words had been on the tip of my tongue, impulsive—I had almost spoken them aloud. I was shocked that I had even thought them. Stupid words, shameful words. Words I did not mean and could never say, especially to a man who had given his health and nearly given his life fighting for England.

  “I’m upset,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

  He looked bemused. “Of course you’re upset. You needn’t apologize.”

  I shook my head. I was losing my perspective, letting the dark conversation I’d had with Dottie get to me. He went off to live with Germans. Germans! And he looked me in the eye and told me he wanted to go. Alex was fluent in German. He had family there—family he was loyal to. He had never spoken in detail to me about his father’s family, but I knew his time with them had been important to him, that he had been grateful they’d taken him in.

  He told you nothing.

  If he’d joined the enemy’s army, his name wouldn’t come up on any lists. If he’d even used his own name, that was—

  Hans Faber.

  I sat still, my head in my hands, my heart stopped in my chest, my breath going still.

  “Jo?” Martin asked.

  Hans Faber. The name in the camera case. I had nearly forgotten it until this moment.

  No. No. It cannot be. Stop thinking this, Jo. Stop it.

  “Jo? Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” I said. I raised my head. “I’m just upset. I’ve been over and over this so many times, and I never get any closer to an answer.”

  Martin rubbed a hand over his face. “I know. I wish I could be more help. But you see, I did try.”

  “I’m going to write Colonel Mabry,” I said. “If I meet with him, will you come?”

  “Of course. What do you plan to ask him?”

  “I want Alex’s military record—his file at the War Office. I’m certain the colonel has the authority to get it for me.”

  Martin looked at me thoughtfully. “You can try it, Jo, but I don’t think the official record is going to tell you very much.”

  “It’ll tell me more than I know now, which is nothing.” A thought occurred to me. “Unless you can pull more favors and get it for me?”

  He shook his head. “My influence doesn’t reach that high, I’m afraid. But you know, I’ve heard Mabry’s name before. I’m sure of it. I’m just not certain where.”

  “He seems rather high ranking,” I said, “though I don’t know much about these things. It isn’t strange that you’d have heard his name.”

  “No, no, it wasn’t through the army. I have it now. It was Mabry’s son—he was in one of those hospitals, you know, for shell-shocked fellows. Do you remember the hospital in Yorkshire that was in the news a few years ago?”

  I dimly recalled it. “The one that was closed due to mismanagement?”

  “That’s the one. It was supposed to be an exclusive place, but there was an influenza outbreak and some sort of scandal.”

  “I remember,” I said, “though I don’t remember Mabry’s name.”

  “I do. The poor chap was one of the patients. That must have been a tough pill for a man like the colonel to swallow, having his s
on in a place like that. Not that I’m judging anyone—I’m in no position for it.”

  The terrace door opened behind us, and a set of footsteps sounded across the stone. “It’s a little cold out here for telling secrets, isn’t it?”

  We turned. Robert was coming toward us, the light from the house behind him casting him in silhouette. He was dressed in his usual dapper suit, his hair slicked back from his forehead. I had barely seen him in the weeks I’d been at Wych Elm House.

  “Good evening, Papa,” Martin said. “Care to join us?”

  “No, though I do admit I’m curious as to what you’re whispering about. Your heads are bent so close together I’m wondering if we should plan a wedding after all.”

  The words had a teasing tone to them, but Martin ignored it. “Let me guess,” he said to his father. “Mother has spotted us out here and doesn’t like what she’s seen.”

  Robert shrugged. I hadn’t considered anyone might have seen us from beyond the terrace doors. Now that I wasn’t going to marry her son, Dottie wouldn’t like the idea of my acting too intimate with him. “Your mother has asked me to call you in to supper,” Robert said, “which I have the misfortune to be home for tonight. You’re welcome to our table as well, Mrs. Manders.”

  “That’s quite all right.” I stood and brushed off my skirt. “I have a headache. I’ll find something in the kitchen.”

  Robert put his hands in his pockets and looked at me. I realized that although the light from behind the terrace doors put him in shadow, it illuminated me perfectly well in his view, and I felt exposed. “Scavenge for scraps in the kitchen? How sad. I don’t think we’ve treated you well since you came here, Mrs. Manders.”

  “You don’t need to treat me any way at all,” I retorted. “I am capable of handling myself.”

  “Such a fiery temper for a lady!” he said with a patronizing grin. “You have spent too much time with my wife. Still, I suppose you must fend for yourself, now that you’re not marriageable. Does it bother you, I wonder, to still be legally married to a man who’s been dead for three years?”

  “Papa.” Martin had risen, though more slowly than me, and he now stood at my shoulder. “Enough.” He sounded tired.

  Robert turned his attention to his son. From the aroma wafting from him, I realized he’d been drinking, though he held it well. “Your mother is in a mood tonight,” he said. “Something has excited her. I think perhaps she has her sights on a girl for you, though I haven’t asked.”

  “Good,” Martin said. “Let her be excited, then. At least someone will be happy.”

  “I’m surprised she hasn’t had the doctors check that you’re capable of giving her grandsons,” Robert said. “Though for all I know, perhaps she has.”

  “Papa, don’t start.”

  Robert gazed closely at his son through the haze of alcohol. “Do you think I didn’t worry about you?” he asked with a suppressed tremor of emotion in his voice. “Your mother isn’t the only one capable of worrying, you know. I did my share these four years, while the doctors took you to pieces. If you would just gather some gumption and get off the morphine—”

  Martin winced, so fleetingly I knew I was the only one who saw it. “Yes, I know.”

  Swaying faintly, Robert took a step forward, put a hand on the back of Martin’s neck, and looked into his son’s eyes. “She’ll find someone to run over you if you’re not careful,” he said, his voice low. “Someone who will make you as miserable as she’s made me. I thought I didn’t care who I married, either, but I was very bloody wrong. Do you understand?”

  Martin returned his father’s gaze, unwavering. “Yes,” he replied. “I understand. But this has nothing to do with Cousin Jo, so please leave her alone.”

  “I’m trying to give you advice,” Robert said. He dropped his hand and stepped back, and I could only dimly see his features in the half-light. “Let’s go in and get this over with, shall we?”

  Martin watched his father’s retreating back, then turned to me. “I beg your pardon for my father’s behavior,” he said softly. “He can be crude when he’s been drinking.”

  “Martin,” I said.

  “He’s right,” Martin said. “Mother is expecting us both to dinner for the first time in weeks. I need to go inside and get it over with.”

  • • •

  I took a tray to my room and set it on the small writing desk—bread, cheese, a slice of cold meat, some fruit, and a glass of wine, a treat I didn’t usually partake of. I turned on the bedside lamp—I had long ago put the shade back where it belonged, and it had not been moved again—and stood, looking down at the tray and around at the rest of my room.

  I could sit here and eat quietly, reading a book. I had done so for many a night. I could sip the wine, hoping it would help me sleep and keep away the dreams. I could think about what was happening downstairs, what the family was talking about at the dinner table, if they were talking at all. I could be alone with my memories and my questions and my traitorous thoughts.

  Instead, I left the room and moved quietly into the corridor.

  With the family and the servants busy downstairs, the rest of the house was quiet. I had at least another hour before anyone would come upstairs at all.

  I climbed the stairs to the second floor, then on upward to the attic floor. This time, I did not open the door to the roof. Instead, I approached Franny’s bedroom door, dark and silent, and turned the knob.

  The room wasn’t locked. It was hushed and still inside, and I noticed a dusty, unlived-in smell that I hadn’t registered before. Though kept clean and tidy, a room that isn’t lived in announces itself—the clothes that are tucked away in perfect stacks, the bedspread and pillows that lack a single dent. I moved silently across the thick rug and turned on the lamp Dottie had lit when I’d found her here, sitting in the rocking chair. The circle of light bloomed.

  If someone had killed Frances, making it appear like she’d jumped, the first place I could think of to find evidence of it was somewhere in this room.

  I was brisk and quiet, trying my best not to disturb anything. I searched the bed, including under the pillows and under the bed itself. I searched the wardrobe, running my hands along the insides, brushing the pockets of Frances’s few dresses—she’d been tiny and slender at age fifteen—and going through her drawers, lifting neat stacks of her underthings and letting my fingertips trace the bottoms and the sides. I searched the closet, which was nearly empty but for cold-weather coats and a few rows of shoes. I folded back the corner of the rug, got on my knees and peered beneath the dresser, looked carefully into the recessed window seat. My final stop was the bookshelf, where I even removed each book and shook it, looking for a clue to fall out.

  Dottie had said that Frances liked to sketch; it was odd that the shelf contained no sketchbook. But when I pulled out a book called World Atlas for Girls, a folded packet was revealed on the shelf, tied with a faded ivory ribbon. I held the slim packet in my palm and tugged on the ribbon, revealing a small stack of photographs.

  The first photograph was of a baby, dressed in a plush, frilly dress, sitting up and staring with baffled solemnity into the camera. Even in infancy, I recognized Frances. I turned over the photograph to find a single sentence written on the back in a blocky hand, the pencil nearly too faint to read:

  Do you love her?

  Frowning, I looked at the next picture. It showed Frances again, aged perhaps three, holding the hand of her brother. Martin was around nine, wearing trousers and a jacket. They were on the front lawn, Wych Elm House behind them, Martin squinting into the sunlight, Fran staring into the camera, clutching hard on her brother’s hand. It was a picture like any of thousands of others—the impatient boy, holding his little sister’s hand for a portrait in the bright sunlight. But I turned the picture over and saw words scrawled in the same faint pencil on the back:


  It watches me

  I turned the picture over again. Who had written these? It must have been Frances—but what did she think was watching her?

  I was moving the picture aside to look at the one beneath it when the lamp behind me went out, then turned on again.

  I froze. There was a breath of something cold on my back—a draft of icy air, as if a window were open. To my left, the wardrobe door creaked shut with a gentle snick.

  Panic rooted me still for a long moment; I could feel my pulse pounding in my fingertips where they held the pictures. I swallowed thickly and turned around. I just had time to see the room was empty when the lamp went out again, the click making me jump as if it were a gunshot, and it stayed out this time, leaving me in the dark.

  I blinked, my eyes watering, and focused on the square of the open bedroom doorway in front of me. It was just lighter than the blackness of the bedroom, gray with ambient moonlight in the hallway. I stepped toward it, my only thought now to leave. I placed one foot cautiously before me in the dark, then another, hoping not to stumble.

  I had come closer to the door, my gaze fixed unwaveringly on its square of cloudy light, when a figure crossed the doorway from right to left, swift and silent.

  I froze in shock. I knew that figure; I recognized it. The dress, the pinned-up hair, the high forehead. Frances Forsyth had just walked past the doorway on her way down the hall.

  I could not go back—to stay in the room was unthinkable. What if the bedroom door was the next to close? Panic pushed me forward, propelled me in its icy grip to the doorway, though my mind rebelled at coming any closer to the figure I’d seen. The air grew colder as I advanced, and when I reached the corridor, I saw that the door to the service stairs hung open and the cold wind was blowing down from the entrance to the roof.

  She had gone there, then. For a moment I pictured it—Frances, standing on the small landing on the house’s top gable, the place where she had died. She would cut a lonely figure, standing stark against the cold dark of the night. Would anyone be able to see her but me?