The Silent Companions

by Laura Purcell

  Then the thought bowled me sideways.

  Lizzy.

  I ran. Stumbling, tripping, unable to control my limbs, I barrelled through the yard door. The house reeked of death. Coughing against my sleeve, I dragged myself on into the Great Hall.

  My skirts threw out shards of ice as I thudded up the stairs. Fear clenched in my chest as I drew nearer to the nursery.

  I reached the door. Hetta’s sparrow chirruped from within. Once it was sweet to hear the bird sing, but now it was calling, calling to the dead, calling to their souls that it might carry them away.

  I hesitated. Then I pushed the door open.

  My eyes did not want to process what they saw. They took in the leaves on the floor, the silent companions ranged about the room like an audience at the play, and Lizzy, laying on her back. Sleeping, my eyes said. Sleeping. But with something draped about her neck. Vines. A rope made of vines and creepers.

  I remembered the catches of breath I had heard earlier. It was not Hetta crying, gasping for breath – it was Lizzy.

  Hetta turned to me. When her eyes met mine, everything came into focus. I saw my oldest friend, the woman I had loved like a mother, with the life throttled from her body, and standing over her, the goblin I had once called daughter.

  There was no apology in her face – only a loathsome, gloating triumph.

  I still held the knife in my hand.

  God forgive me.

  Now all is quiet. The sparrow sits motionless in his cage. Around the house, bodies stiffen and corrupt while Hetta’s blood creeps across the floorboards to the feet of the companions, her only true friends. I watch the red pool curdle with the vines and turn to a rusty brown – the same brown as the potion I drank, so long ago.

  I know what will happen to me: Josiah and his men will find me alone in a house of death. They will send for the witch-finder. The whispers have followed me for long enough. I shall burn.

  It is the most horrific of all deaths. I could avoid it – the knife is still sharp. I should draw the tacky blade across my wrists now and save myself. But that would be too good for me.

  I summoned the demon. I need the cleansing fire of God’s wrath.

  I need to feel the flames.

  THE BRIDGE, 1866

  Morning came and the clock in the Great Hall chimed ten before Sarah returned. Sunlight streamed through the open curtains and stretched her shadow, bending it up the wall. In her lavender gown, her frame appeared shrunken. She did not smile as she came into the room, trailing bandages as if she were a mummy burst from the tomb, and holding a bowl of water.

  ‘Sarah, thank goodness. I thought I should never see you.’

  ‘I’ve come to change your bandages,’ Sarah answered, loudly. ‘It must be done to avoid infection.’ She kicked the door shut and dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘There, that will buy us a bit of time.’

  Elsie watched her lay the linen strips and the bowl on the dressing table. ‘What is it, Sarah?’

  Sarah glanced at the door. ‘In a moment. Come, give me your hand.’ She sat beside the bed and took Elsie’s hand into her lap.

  Elsie winced as Sarah peeled a piece of fabric, dried on with blood, away from her palm. ‘I read the diary,’ she whispered.

  ‘And? Tell me!’

  She paused, knowing she would never be able to convey the despair and chilling guilt in those last pages. The voice she needed belonged to Anne, belonged to another time. ‘You were right. About Anne. She never intended to cause harm. It was all one terrible string of events she could not control.’ Her breath snagged, but she did not need to conceal it – at the same moment the bandage fell away, exposing her wounds to the air. Most had scabbed over, but one or two still wept.

  Strange, that Elsie’s hands were healing faster than Sarah’s single cut. Even an infection should have settled down by now.

  ‘But what happened to poor Hetta?’

  ‘Anne . . . Anne killed Hetta.’

  ‘She killed her own child!’

  ‘She had to!’ A defensive flare that had nothing to do with Anne. ‘The evil you spoke of. Something about a potion and a spell? It was in Hetta. Bound up in her. Anne had to kill her and save what remained of her family. She had to save her boys.’

  Sarah frowned, thoughtful. She wet a cloth in the bowl of water and passed it gently over Elsie’s palm. The wounds sighed with relief. ‘Then it is not Hetta’s ghost, haunting us?’

  ‘Not that exactly. It is more than that. I think . . . The companions were there when Hetta died. Anne wrote that her blood flowed to the feet of them. They absorbed it, do you see? The evil moved into them.’

  ‘But what does it want?’

  ‘I have no idea.’ Did evil have wants and needs? Surely not, surely that would make it too human. No longer a tug from the depths of the abyss, but something sentient that could surface in anyone. In her.

  ‘Perhaps the evil is seeking something.’ Sarah’s breath came hot against her skin. ‘Seeking . . . a more permanent host.’

  A queasy silence fell as they considered the implications of that. Splinters. On Rupert, on the baby. Something trying to get in.

  Sarah unrolled a fresh bandage and pressed it to the centre of Elsie’s palm. ‘While it stays in the companions, it is trapped inside the house.’

  ‘Then we have to stop it, before it can escape.’

  Sarah bound up Elsie’s wounds and tied a knot in the bandage. Then, at last, she exhaled. ‘We cannot stop it. We do not have time. All we can do is flee.’

  ‘Flee?’ Elsie cried. ‘We can’t just run! What if it hurts other people?’

  ‘Perhaps it will hurt other people, Elsie! But I am not concerned for other people. I am only concerned for you.’ Elsie wanted to withdraw her hand. There was something in Sarah’s eyes that demanded too much. ‘Listen to me, please. I have been alone all my life. You could not call Mrs Crabbly family, not with her scolding and her horrid cross ways. And Rupert . . . Well, there was a time when I thought Rupert might marry me. I thought he might sweep in and save me from the life of a lady’s companion. But you know what happened there.’

  Elsie did not know what to say.

  ‘Then I met you. And you were kind to me. I started to think perhaps . . . you might let me be your friend, after all. That I could be of use to you.’

  ‘You have been, Sarah. You are the only person in the world who believes me, who understands. You have been the best of friends.’

  ‘I have never had a friend before.’ Her grip on Elsie’s injured hand was painfully tight. ‘And I’ll be damned if I let them take you away from me.’

  ‘The companions?’

  ‘Not the companions! The doctors!’

  Her body stiffened beneath the sheets. ‘Why would . . . why would doctors take me away?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Elsie. I didn’t want to tell you, but Mr Livingstone has made up his mind. He said it himself, at dinner last night. He’s written to an asylum.’

  Panic stretched its arms deep into her chest. It must be a mistake. Of course, it must be – Jolyon would never have her committed! But Sarah’s depthless brown eyes told another story.

  ‘What, exactly, did he tell you?’

  ‘That you were very ill.’ Gently, she folded Elsie’s hand back onto the bed. ‘He said he had suspected it for some time. Then he asked me to pack up all of your things because some men were coming, some medical men, to examine you. That they would take you with them and you would probably be gone for a good while.’

  Falling – that was what it felt like. Plummeting off the side of a cliff with nothing but rocks below. Jolyon, betray her? The boy she had bled for, surrendered her youth to raise. No, he would never . . . Unless. Unless he had not been asleep after all.

  ‘You are sure of this, Sarah? You are absolutely sure?’

  Sarah nodded. Strands of hair drooped, listless, fallen free of their pins. ‘I went to the library. I saw the letters he has written.’

  ‘But y
ou know I am not mad!’

  ‘Of course I do. And that’s why I’ve decided.’ She threw her chin up, defiant. ‘I am going to get you out of here. Tonight.’

  Elsie had a terrible urge to laugh. That shocked, hysterical laughter that only came when all hope was gone. ‘How do you propose to do that? Think of my leg.’

  ‘I’ve found a walking stick. You can use it to lean upon.’

  ‘It will make a noise. They’ll hear it on the stairs.’

  Roses bloomed in Sarah’s cheeks. ‘There is something . . . something I can do at supper. I used to do it for Mrs Crabbly, when she was griping.’ Elsie stared at her. ‘A little drop into the drinks, to make them sleep heavily.’

  Elsie had the feeling she had misjudged Sarah all along. ‘Did you really? Did you really drug Mrs Crabbly just to get some peace?’

  A roguish grin spread over Sarah’s face. ‘We have all done things we are a little ashamed of, Mrs Bainbridge.’

  Night fell swiftly. All afternoon rain pattered against the windows. Each time Elsie awoke from a doze, the clouds had grown a little darker. She closed her eyes to a gunpowder sky, and opened them to find it had deepened to tar black. It was time.

  Elsie staggered out of bed before she had the chance to fall back asleep. With great difficulty, she tied on the cloak Sarah had left out for her and put a fresh box of matches in the pocket. A laudanum haze filled her vision. Every muscle protested at her folly. How would she even make it down the stairs?

  The stick was too fragile, trembling under her weight as she limped to the door. If the companions came, she would not be able to run.

  But what choice did she have?

  Two soft thuds on the door. Elsie’s head jerked up.

  ‘Come in,’ she whispered.

  The door opened silently and Sarah slid in, bringing with her an aura of golden light. She carried an oil lantern in each hand.

  ‘Here.’ Shadows cavorted across her face as she handed a lantern to Elsie. Her pupils reflected the light.

  ‘Are they both asleep?’

  ‘There was a small problem,’ Sarah said. ‘Mr Livingstone went to the library. I’m afraid he’s drifted off in there. He will have a stiff neck when he wakes.’

  Worry bunched in her chest. Now it came down to it, she was weak. She did not want to leave him behind. ‘Sarah . . . Perhaps we should wait. We need to plan it out. Where will we go, what will we do?’

  Sarah stared at her. ‘There is no time. We have enough money between us to get on a train.’

  ‘But . . . I can’t just abandon Jolyon. What if the companions go after him? What if they use him as their host?’

  ‘Will you be able to stop them, if you are here?’

  ‘No . . . But—’

  ‘Will you be able to protect him from inside an asylum?’

  Elsie closed her eyes. There was no way to win. Whatever choice she made, she lost Jolyon. And what was her life, then?

  ‘I can’t . . .’

  ‘You are not betraying him, Elsie. It is he who has given up on you.’

  Reluctantly, she nodded. Better to take her chances with Sarah than spend a lifetime trapped behind high walls. She would not let someone force her, not ever again.

  Sarah led the way. Elsie limped after her. Everything was in gloom. Not even the gas lights burnt.

  All she could hear were Sarah’s footsteps and the steady tap, tap of her stick. The lantern in her hand bounced to her uneven gait, illuminating flashes of maroon carpet.

  Suddenly, Sarah froze. Elsie could not stop in time. There was a thud and the sound of glass breaking, oil spilling. Shadows flooded in as the corridor grew a shade darker. Sarah had dropped her lantern.

  ‘Quick.’ She jerked round and snatched the remaining light from Elsie. The moment she held it aloft, they gasped.

  Seven companions skulked beside the stairs.

  It was too dark to make out their faces. Only silhouettes loomed, large against the wall as the lantern trembled in Sarah’s hand. Elsie cast a glance over her shoulder, remembering how they had come before, from both sides, like a pack of wolves. She could see nothing solid, only a trickle of yellow running down from the ceiling at the end of the corridor.

  ‘Sarah, what—’ Before she finished, she heard Jolyon’s snore. Confused images slotted together and then she realised: the yellow stripe was a lamp burning in the library. The library door was open. She clutched at Sarah’s gown. ‘He’s in there all alone. I can’t leave him, not with them out here.’

  Sarah’s eyes were fixed on the companions. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Jolyon!’

  ‘But you being in the house won’t stop them!’

  Her bad leg started to shake. ‘He’s left the door open.’

  ‘What difference does it make?’

  She was right. There was logic, but then there was also the heart: the heart of a woman who had raised a boy alone from when he was five years of age. Elsie couldn’t leave him. At the very least, she had to shut the door.

  ‘Keep watching them,’ she cried, and pivoted on her stick. Thinking only of Jolyon, she plunged back into the corridor.

  Her stick tapped in time to her frantic pulse. She heard Sarah’s shout of alarm, but already it sounded far away. She was drowning in darkness. Her eyes flew about, seeking relief from unrelenting black. Jolyon. Just concentrate on Jolyon. Despite the pain scalding her ribs, despite the numb weakness of her left leg, she pressed on towards the crack of light.

  She thought she would drop. Pain, fear and laudanum engulfed her. Only the unnatural chill rolling out of the library and the dank, mouldy smell cut through the haze. She stumbled gasping across the threshold. Jolyon sat slumped at the desk in the alcove, his head resting on the polished surface.

  Hobbling closer, she saw the movement of his eyes beneath their lids and the slow thump of a pulse in his neck. Alive. He was just sleeping. His breath fluttered the paper beneath his cheek.

  It was only by chance that she noticed the letterhead. She was on the point of turning away, but her eye caught at the script, printed like a scream.

  St Joseph’s Hospital for the Insane

  For a moment everything fell still. Then her heart kicked back in, drumming blood into her head with painful beats. She stumbled from the room.

  That one word ricocheted around her skull: insane.

  She could not doubt Sarah any longer. Jolyon really did think she was mad. He had given her up. The pain of that was worse than the cracked ribs. Slamming the door shut, she turned and fought her way through the darkness, back along the corridor.

  ‘Please, Elsie!’ Sarah’s strangled voice led her forward. ‘Are you there? I can’t stare at these things any longer.’

  ‘Have they moved?’

  ‘Only their eyes. They were watching you.’

  Elsie shivered.

  If only she could see clearly. She could not relight the broken lantern, for the oil had soaked into the carpet. Dare she fire up a wall lamp? Surely the light of just one would not wake Jolyon?

  With her free hand, she pulled on the lever.

  ‘Here, Sarah, take my matches. I’ll hold the lantern while you light the gas.’

  Sarah obeyed and the flame leapt into life. Light splashed on the red flock wallpaper, the marble busts. ‘Oh my. They look a little closer.’

  ‘We cannot stop watching them,’ Elsie told her. ‘I’ll go down the stairs first with the lantern, to watch out for any in the Great Hall. You walk backwards and keep an eye on these ones.’

  Sarah’s fingers tightened around the matchbox. ‘Backwards? Why me?’

  Elsie thumped her stick impatiently on the floor. ‘It will be hard enough for me going forwards.’

  They stood, back to back. Thank heaven they were dressed simply, with no puffing crinolines. Elsie felt Sarah’s shoulders against hers, the damp sweat through her gown. ‘Ready?’

  Sarah’s gasp of air. ‘Ready.’

  She scooped her skirts
into the hand that held the stick, the material giving grip to her slippery palm. ‘Come on, then.’

  Her legs were shaking – not just the bad one. One step. Two. Slowly, slowly, Sarah’s heels bumping at hers. The lantern’s cloud of light careered around the stairwell, showing flashes of carpet and wallpaper. No companions.

  ‘Last one,’ Elsie whispered, and they stumbled onto a small landing. One flight down, another to go.

  Hiss, hiss.

  Sarah’s shoulders turned rigid. ‘I can’t see them any more. The gas lamp . . . it’s too far away.’

  ‘Light a match. It’s just a little farther.’

  From above them came a slow scratch. Elsie pictured them, dragging their monstrous bases across the floorboards.

  Exhaustion threatened to swamp her, but she couldn’t surrender to it. Thump, thump went her stick on the stairs, her leg nearly buckling. With each step Sarah bumped into her, sending pain spiralling through her chest. And all the while, shadows rolled up behind them.

  Hiss, hiss.

  Finally the lantern glinted on metal and flashed over the blue and gold Bainbridge coat of arms. The Great Hall was in sight. They were nearly there.

  ‘Elsie! Elsie, I feel something!’

  They were on the last step. Elsie hurried to reach the safety of the floor, but she stumbled.

  No, no. Her stick skidded, the lantern wavered. Fire shot up her bad leg. Sarah screamed. There it was: the floor, hard and level beneath her shoes. Elsie tottered and somehow managed to regain her balance.

  They had made it into the Great Hall.

  ‘Dear me! Miss Sarah!’

  Light, sneaking in from the far side of the Great Hall. Elsie’s heart leapt to her throat.

  ‘How could you?’

  Gasping, squinting, she turned to face the voice. The green baize door to the servants’ side stood open. Mrs Holt outlined in fire, lit from behind. She fumbled, there was a pop, and then a lamp sprang to life.

  ‘Well, well.’ Mrs Holt’s footsteps sounded on the flags, clipped, judgemental. ‘Who would have thought? I might have expected it from you,’ she gave a sharp nod in Elsie’s direction. ‘But Miss Sarah! You ought to know better.’