Lost Among the Living

by Simone St. James

  “You mean it, don’t you?” he said in a whisper.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, trying not to notice that my hands were cold with fear. “I’m exhausted. I can’t even think straight.”

  Still he sat looking at me, his fingers curled around the back of my bare ankle. He did not take his eyes from my face. He had such a gift for stillness, my husband did, such utter control of every nerve and muscle. He watched me for a long moment, his expression impossible to read. It was this stillness, I saw now, this ability to be silent and the endless patience to wait, that had made him such a good spy.

  Without a word, he set my foot down on the coverlet and rose from his chair.

  “Get some sleep,” he said. A moment later, the door clicked softly shut behind him.

  I was trembling. The skin of my legs still burned where he’d touched me. I reached out and switched off the lamp, then lay on top of the coverlet, still in my dress. I wondered briefly if the maids had made up another room for him. If they’d talk of us the way they talked of Dottie and Robert belowstairs. They sleep separate.

  But he had only told me to get some sleep. He had not said good night. And Alex never said anything without meaning.

  I curled into a ball and closed my eyes.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  It was dark when I awoke, and I was in bed with Alex, and I had been dreaming.

  I blinked against the blackness, and at first, as the dream vanished from my memory like cobwebs, I did not fully grasp that Alex was against my back, his arm slung around my waist. I jerked and rolled over in surprise.

  I was still wearing the silk peacock dress, still lying on top of the coverlet. Alex, too, was lying on the coverlet, fully dressed in his white shirt and trousers; he must have been sleeping, though now he was awake, his head lifted from the pillow, his body tense. His hand squeezed my hip, and I realized he’d awoken me. He whispered my name.

  “What is it?” I whispered back.

  “I heard something,” he said. “I thought—there it is again.”

  From the woods outside, far off in the trees, came the lonely sound of a howl. It rose, echoing, spiraling upward, and then it subsided again. The tone was so eerie, so despairing, it could have come from a human throat.

  “What the devil,” Alex hissed as it growled into silence.

  I was afraid—there was no way not to be when that howl pierced the air—but exhilaration pulsed through me at the same time. “It’s Princer,” I said. “You can hear him?”

  Alex looked down at me. “What did you just say?”

  “She calls him,” I said. “She whistles when she wants him to come. But I thought I was the only one. You mean you actually heard it?”

  He frowned at me, but all I could feel was a wild whoop of triumph. Perhaps I wasn’t the only one who could hear these things, see them. If I could show him the leaves—if he could see—

  “Jo,” Alex said softly, “what are you talking about? Who calls him?”

  “Frances,” I replied. “She doesn’t do it often—I’ve only seen it the once. The other times, it’s just Frances, watching me.”

  The mention of Frances’s name seemed to shock him, and I watched his expression flicker as he got it under control. Perhaps, I thought, he can hear Princer because he killed Princer’s mistress. But that didn’t explain why I could hear him, too.

  “You’re saying that Frances is—” Alex’s tone turned from shocked to incredulous. “You’re saying she haunts this place?”

  “She’s lonely,” I said. I had to make him understand. “She wants to communicate. I thought it was just me—it’s only me who has seen her. But you just heard her dog.”

  Alex frowned and focused on the window again. I watched him closely in the moonlight, his flawless profile, the perfect fearlessness of his posture. I studied him for signs of guilt, but I realized I didn’t know what guilt looked like on Alex, not anymore.

  “It seems to have stopped,” he said after a moment. He turned, the moonlight no longer tracing his profile. Then he blinked, and seemed to see me, my shoulders bare, my hair lying across the pillow. “Come closer,” he said. “It’s cold.”

  I felt myself go stiff as the triumph left me and I remembered where I was. “What are you doing?” I asked him.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I didn’t invite you into bed with me. In fact, I asked you to leave. There are plenty of bedrooms in this house, you know. A dozen of them.”

  “They’re all full because of the party.”

  “Then you should be sleeping on a sofa.”

  His gaze narrowed on me. “I’ll abide by your rule,” he said, “but if you think I’m sleeping anywhere else, think again.”

  “And that’s it?” I asked, exasperated. “You’re just going to sleep in your clothes every night for the rest of your life?”

  He raised an eyebrow, and in the dark I felt my cheeks flush hot. “And if I find myself another bed?” I asked.

  “Then I’ll follow you to it. I know every room in this house, Jo.”

  “You agreed to leave.”

  “I didn’t,” he pointed out, as I knew he would. “I told you to get some sleep.”

  I sighed and rolled over again, my dress rustling. Behind me, he put his head to the pillow. We had lain like this for many a night during our marriage, and our bodies fit together; Alex was adept at taking up little space with his long, lean body and leaving me most of the bed.

  “Where did you go, then?” I asked. “When you left earlier?”

  “Martin was still up,” he replied. “I talked to him for a while.”

  “Getting your story just right,” I said.

  “I told you, it’s important.”

  Such an accomplished liar he’d become. “You can’t sleep here every night.”

  “Yes, I can. You’ve been free of my attentions for three years,” he said in a light murmur that held a shiver of deadly seriousness. “You may have enjoyed your little vacation, but it’s at an end.”

  “You didn’t come back here for me,” I said.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Are you denying that you had other reasons as well?”

  He was silent. I was right. I had picked it up without thinking, in watching and listening to him, hidden in the silent code of communication between man and wife. It told me he was thinking of something besides me, that there was something else going on. He had telegraphed it to me unawares. It didn’t even hurt—it was sort of a relief, in a way, an easy exit from my painful confusion and back into numbness. I closed my eyes.

  “I have my reasons,” Alex said, “for not telling you my reasons.”

  “Then I suppose we’re at a standstill,” I replied. “Go to sleep.”

  I did not sleep for a long time, and I didn’t think he did, either. My head throbbed. My eyes ached. And still I lay in the silence, feeling his chest against my back and listening to him breathe.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  He was gone when I awoke the next morning. The bedroom was deserted, as were the bathroom and the corridor. It was midmorning, and most of last night’s guests had left as I was still in bed, sleeping. The Staffrons were gone as well, their bedrooms empty.

  I took my time washing, running hot water from Dottie’s expensive modern taps, the peacock dress hanging over the rail above me, the steam making headway on the wrinkles in the silk. I sponged myself thoroughly, then returned to the bedroom and dressed in one of my new dresses, a pair of my new stockings, and my new shoes. I wound my hair neatly and tied it into a chignon, fixing it with pins. Something about the slow routine felt strengthening. I wanted to be ready to go downstairs and see what awaited me.

  Breakfast had finished—I was quite late—and the dishes were already cleared from the morning room. The only person there was Dottie, standing at the Fre
nch doors and looking over the terrace. She turned to me.

  “It’s about time, Manders,” she said. “There’s no time for breakfast; you’ll have to eat later. Take a cup of tea with you to the library. We’re having a family meeting.”

  The very normalcy of her rudeness soothed me. I took a cup of tea and followed her narrow wool-clad back down the corridor to the library.

  The family was already in the library. Robert lounged against a bookshelf; Martin sat alone on a sofa, looking pale. Alex sat in the chair opposite Dottie’s desk, as if he were a visitor, wearing a tweed jacket, caramel trousers, and expensive leather oxfords, one long leg crossed over the other and one elbow flung behind him over the back of his chair. He watched me as I came through the door.

  Other than Dottie’s, there were no chairs left except the one behind my little typewriter, which had been pulled up next to Alex. I sat in it, my hands in my lap, and waited.

  “Well,” Dottie said to the room. She walked briskly to her desk and stood behind it. “Now that the guests are gone, we can have a discussion. Last night was unexpected, but I believe the scandal has temporarily been contained.”

  “We’re glad to have you back, old chap,” Robert said.

  “Thank you, Uncle,” Alex replied.

  “My concern now is the family’s privacy,” Dottie said. “We kept the news from the party guests, but the servants have undoubtedly already begun talking. Stories will spread, and as stories spread they become wilder and more untrue.”

  There was no argument from anyone in the room. I thought of Frances, the tales that she had been kept in chains. I wondered if Mrs. Baines, the village postmistress, had heard about Alex already.

  “I think gossip is the least of my worries, Aunt Dottie,” Alex said. “I intend to ignore it.”

  “That would be foolish of you,” Dottie said. “It’s best if you keep away from the village, at least for now. I don’t want any talk to harm Martin’s engagement.”

  “Oh, please, Mother,” Martin protested tiredly. “What does it matter? Alex is alive, and he’s home. What does it matter what anyone thinks?”

  “It matters,” Dottie replied. “It always matters what people think.”

  “I’ll make the rounds of the neighbors,” Robert said. “Tell them the story. That way we’ll have the truth circulating among the better class of people in these parts, at least. I’ll start this afternoon.”

  Dottie looked like she’d swallowed a lemon. She hated Robert’s social activities and refused to participate in them, but even she could see that in this instance they’d be useful. “I suppose,” she managed ungraciously.

  “Besides,” Robert said, “I’ll get good mileage out of it. My nephew coming home a hero, just now, after all this time.” His smile, aimed at Alex, was almost wolfish. “If that isn’t worth a few drinks, I don’t know what is.”

  “Very well,” Dottie said with sour finality. “But it does leave the question of Manders.”

  “Yes.” Alex’s voice was distinctly cool. “It leaves the question of my wife.”

  Everyone looked at me. My cheeks heated. Robert looked from me to Alex, a knowing smirk on his face. I felt as transparent as glass, as if everything that had happened—and hadn’t happened—last night was obvious. “The work Dottie needs done doesn’t stop just because Alex has come home,” I said.

  Next to me, I caught the subtle vibration of Alex’s shock. He hadn’t thought I’d want to stay on as Dottie’s companion. Well, he wasn’t the only one with surprises. Besides, at the moment Dottie was more familiar to me than he was.

  Dottie didn’t even blink. “I have a full schedule,” she agreed. “However, Manders, I do not expect you to be productive today, so I am granting you the day off. You may do as you wish and report to me tomorrow.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “You can hardly think to keep my wife in your employ, Aunt,” Alex said, his tone dipping dangerously low.

  “She can if I wish it,” I returned.

  Robert’s smirk widened. I stayed anchored to my seat, holding his gaze. I have reasons for not telling you my reasons. Alex had his own purpose here—let him follow it, then, and I’d follow mine.

  Frances and her murderer were my purpose. I would find out what had happened, husband or no husband. Staying on as Dottie’s companion was the best way.

  Dottie adjourned the meeting. I needed escape; the air of Wych Elm House was too close, the corridors too dark and musty. Though it was raining, I found the driver and asked him to bring around the car. I walked to the kitchen vestibule and took the black mackintosh from its hook. There was mud on the back from when I’d lain in the ditch, looking up at Princer. I found a brush and quickly got rid of the dried dirt. Then I found my hat and my gloves.

  When I returned to the hall, just as the motorcar was brought around, I found Alex standing by the front door in hat and coat, an umbrella tucked under his arm.

  “Where are we going?” he asked me.

  I stopped. I wanted to escape, but I’d also planned to try to question David Wilde in town. “Shopping,” I said.

  “I see.” His gaze was steady on me from beneath the brim of his hat. Behind him, the rain splashed against the thick panes of decorative glass in the door.

  “Alex,” I said, “you just promised Dottie you’d stay in the house.”

  “No, I didn’t,” he said with unassailable logic, “though that was a good try. In fact, I object to letting you leave unaccompanied.”

  “We just talked about this,” I protested. I took a step toward him, thinking to brush past him, but he would not let me by. “You’ll stir gossip if you go to the village.”

  “And I’ve already said I don’t give a damn,” Alex said. He bent down to me, the shadows in the dim hall inky black beneath the brim of his hat. He put two fingers beneath my chin and lifted it. “You are stuck with me, Jo,” he said. “For better or for worse. We are married. You are stuck with me forever.”

  I swallowed. I could feel my pulse in my throat. “Then I’ll stay home,” I rasped.

  “If you prefer,” Alex said. “It’s a rainy day, and we have nothing to do. We can certainly spend the day in bed.”

  I tore myself from his grip and wrenched the front door open, striding out into the rain. He followed me easily, taking my arm as I stepped into the motorcar. For a long moment, as the driver started the car and we began to move down the drive, I could not look at him. My own husband. We had spent long, sensuous afternoons together once, listening to the rain against our bedroom window as we lay in bed. I forced myself to turn and look at him. “That was uncalled for,” I said.

  Alex sat back in the seat cushions, his umbrella between his well-formed knees. “What’s uncalled for,” he complained mildly, “is that my wife won’t spend the afternoon in bed with me after three years away.”

  I gaped at him. “Can you blame me?”

  “Certain parts of me blame you a great deal, yes.”

  “Then those parts should have come home sooner,” I snapped.

  “Believe me,” he replied with sincerity in his voice, “they tried.”

  I pressed my fingertips to my temples and shut my eyes. I was going to go mad.

  “Where are we going?” Alex asked me after a moment, as the rain beat a tattoo on the roof of the motorcar.

  “Shopping. I told you.”

  He seemed to think this over. “No,” he said. “I don’t think we are. It’s raining, and you’ve always hated shopping. There’s something else going on. What exactly are you doing, Jo? What has you hurrying out of Wych Elm House so quickly, besides my presence?”

  I couldn’t do it. I wasn’t built for subterfuge, not like he was. I checked that the pane of glass between us and the driver was up, and then I blurted, “Did you kill your cousin?”

  That quieted h
im. There was no sound but the hum of the motor.

  “There’s nothing I can do if you did,” I continued. “It was years ago, and no one would believe me. I wouldn’t believe me. The inquest is long over, and it would be your word against mine.”

  When Alex spoke, his voice was soft, with a chill in it like a descending fog. “How very extraordinary.”

  “It isn’t,” I protested. “It isn’t extraordinary that I would at least wonder. You were here in the house that day. You specifically requested leave. You were seen talking to her the day before she died. There’s so much you haven’t explained to me. And don’t tell me it wasn’t murder, because it was.”

  “No,” Alex said. “It isn’t extraordinary that you would wonder, though I don’t deny it stings. What’s extraordinary is that you and I seem to be on the same mission after all this time.”

  I stared at him. “What do you mean?”

  “You asked me,” Alex said slowly, “last night what other reason I had to come to Wych Elm House. Well, now you’ve found it. I’ve come here, Jo, because I want to find my cousin’s murderer. Just like you do.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The rain was coming down in cold spatters, blown by gusts of wind. I held the brim of my hat as Alex helped me from the car, and I waited as he unfurled his umbrella and held it over our heads. We were at the end of Anningley’s High Street, facing downhill toward the church, but Alex touched my arm and steered me down a side lane. “Let’s walk a while,” he said.

  I followed, my handbag under my arm. Though it was dark and chill, I was still glad to be out of the close confines of the motorcar, and the fresh air on my cheeks was welcome. “I don’t suppose you could possibly explain,” I said to my husband.

  “It’s a very long story.”

  I sighed. “You seem to be full of long stories. Please tell me this one as well.”

  Alex walked quietly beside me for a moment. We were strolling down a lane lined with small cottages, their front yards thick with hedges and browning rosebushes, the dead heads of rhododendrons bowing over the fences. The ground was wet and dotted with puddles, and but for a single farmer’s cart on the road in the distance, no one was about. I leaned in close to him, taking up as much space under the umbrella as I could. He was lost in thought and did not seem to notice.