The Silent Companions

by Laura Purcell

  ‘Miss Bainbridge for you, doctor,’ said an attendant.

  Elsie was so concerned about her own appearance, she had not stopped to think how Sarah would look. She expected the same poorly dressed, drab girl she had waved away. But the lady who walked into the room wore a silk gown of arsenic green buttoned up to her throat. Its fringed bustle rustled behind her. The mousy hair that had always fallen out of its pins was combed back clean from her face and arranged in a pile of cascading sausage curls. Perching on the side of her head was a black hat with a green feather and a net face veil.

  An imposter.

  But no – the face was the same. A little plumper, perhaps, and improved with cosmetics, yet the cheekbones were still too high and the mouth, which smiled to greet Dr Shepherd, was still too wide.

  ‘Oh! Mrs Bainbridge!’ She swept forwards to grip Elsie’s hands in her own. They were soft, encased in tight-fitting kid gloves. ‘Good heavens, I had no idea it was so bad. Your poor face! What you must have been through.’

  There was a note to her voice Elsie had not caught before – more girlish now and fluting. But perhaps she did not remember it correctly.

  She squeezed Sarah’s hands, trying to convey all her emotion through the pressure. She could not look Sarah full in the face, not yet. She did not want to see the pity and revulsion there.

  ‘I think perhaps I mentioned to you, Miss Bainbridge, that my patient has experienced difficulty with speech since the incident. I will act as her interpreter, if that is agreeable to you.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Sarah withdrew her hands and took the chair Dr Shepherd pulled out for her. The boning of her gown gave her an upright posture. ‘It is hardly surprising after all that has happened.’

  Dr Shepherd walked back round to his own seat. Elsie stole a glance at Sarah’s face, but she was watching the doctor.

  ‘Indeed, it is common when a patient has endured trauma,’ said Dr Shepherd. ‘But in this case it has proven rather inconvenient. Without being able to question Mrs Bainbridge, the police have been on the back foot somewhat in their investigation. Speculation about what occurred at The Bridge has run out of hand.’

  ‘That is why I am here. To tell what I know.’ Sarah offered him a smile. It was somehow eerie.

  ‘And not a moment too soon! The inquest is almost upon us. May I ask, Miss Bainbridge – forgive the impertinence – what it was that kept you from coming forward for so long?’

  ‘I would have thought that was obvious, doctor. I was afraid.’

  ‘Afraid? Whatever of?’

  ‘Oh, no doubt it will sound foolish to a clever man like you.’ She flicked a curl over her shoulder. ‘But there was so much death at The Bridge! Then Mr Livingstone decided to put his sister in the asylum, and it seemed to me I must get far away from the place.’

  The air rearranged around them. What – what had she said?

  Dr Shepherd paused, his mouth slightly ajar. ‘You . . . ran away, then? You did not get lost or hurt going to fetch the police?’

  ‘I know what you must think of me, doctor. I have been a terrible coward. But I am willing to be brave now. After all these years, I have finally found my voice.’

  Elsie stared at her. Her outline swam, wavering beneath the tears that filmed Elsie’s eyes.

  Sarah had left her? On purpose? She had lied to her face, taken her purse, and run off to leave her for the companions? Of all people, Sarah?

  The sense of betrayal brewed so dark and strong that she could taste it. Her own words came back to her. This is what happens to me, Jo. I trust people and they abuse that trust.

  Dr Shepherd was rummaging through his notes, flustered. ‘But, you – er – you did not think it your duty to make yourself known after the fire? When the police appealed for information?’

  ‘It was unclear at that stage whether Mrs Bainbridge was going to pull through or not. I read of the poor thing’s terrible injuries.’

  Another blow. She had known. And even though the newspapers would have told her The Bridge was burnt to the ground, forever rid of companions, she had not bothered to visit. Elsie had been fighting for her life and Sarah had not lifted a finger.

  This was the girl that just yesterday Elsie had hoped to live with, live for! How could she have got Sarah so wrong?

  ‘Well yes, but surely that would not . . . I mean, regardless of Mrs Bainbridge’s survival, you had information. Information about Mr Livingstone’s death.’

  ‘Yes, God help me.’ Sarah drew out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. Her dress was so bright that it reflected in her irises, lending a green tinge to the brown. ‘I did not want to say it unless I had to. But now it is my duty, I see that. Other people may be in danger.’

  ‘In danger from—?’

  Sarah looked at Elsie. Her face crumpled. ‘Oh, forgive me! You know that I must tell them!’

  Tell them? About the companions, did she mean? She swapped a bewildered glance with Dr Shepherd, whose cheeks were growing redder by the instant.

  ‘It appears we may be talking at cross-purposes, Miss Bainbridge. I did not set much store by it, but Mrs Bainbridge has told me of a furnishing you both seemed to fear, something she called a companion. Is this what you allude to?’

  ‘You poor thing,’ she whispered, ‘you poor thing.’

  ‘Miss Bainbridge?’

  ‘That was why Mr Livingstone wrote to your hospital in the first place, doctor. She kept seeing these companions everywhere, when no one else could.’

  Dr Shepherd cocked his head. ‘I thought . . . she wrote that you could?’

  ‘I may have gone along with it, doctor, to pacify her.’ Sarah twisted her handkerchief. ‘I didn’t know what else to do. I was so afraid that if I crossed her, I would be next.’

  ‘Next?’

  ‘Those . . . accidents. It was so clear what was really going on, but no one wanted to admit it. The cow, baby Edgar, Helen. Mr Livingstone could not bring himself to face the truth until it was too late for him.’

  ‘You – you—’ Dr Shepherd began to stutter. Elsie saw her own confusion and dismay written all over him. ‘Are you saying . . .’

  ‘I saw her. I saw her push him from that window with her own two hands. And I have no doubt she killed poor Mrs Holt too, before starting the fire.’

  No. How could they not hear it – how was her tongue not saying it? The word clanged so loud in her head it should be echoing off the walls, bouncing down the corridors. No!

  It was not true, she would never hurt Jolyon! She was not a murderess!

  But then why did Sarah glare at her like that?

  She saw Dr Shepherd’s certainty crumble, his courage slither away. ‘Oh! Oh, I see . . .’

  They were still sitting on the same side of the table, but they were not a team now. The space between their shoulders prickled like static. His mind must be racing with the same thoughts as Elsie’s: why did I trust her; how could I be so foolish; why would she betray me like that?

  ‘You understand, now, why I held back,’ Sarah said. ‘I loved Mrs Bainbridge, I truly did, and I was horrified when . . . I did not want to speak out against her if I could help it. But now that time has come.’

  ‘Yes.’ Dr Shepherd removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He would not look at Elsie. ‘Yes, I believe the inquest is due next week. We must consult the police. Would you . . .’

  ‘I am prepared to testify. I must put my personal feelings aside for justice.’ She let out a little sigh. ‘Even if it means watching my poor cousin’s widow hang.’

  ‘Hang!’ Dr Shepherd repeated.

  Elsie felt it around her neck: hemp squeezing tight. Wood, always wood, beneath her feet until they pulled a lever and the trapdoor clunked open.

  ‘It is a possibility, is it not, doctor? Four people are dead.’

  ‘Well . . . yes, in theory the death sentence could be bestowed. But you said she is not in her right mind. Surely a jury would find her not guilty by way of insanity.’

>   ‘That is my dearest wish.’ Sarah glanced down her long nose at Elsie. The look turned her cold. ‘But I suppose it depends upon what is said at the trial.’

  None of it was real. These were actors standing and shaking hands, their conversation swirling around her edges. The squeal of the chair legs against the tiles; Sarah’s breathy ‘God save you, dear Mrs Bainbridge!’ – these things could not be taking place. Not here. Not to her.

  She gazed up at the mirror in the corner of the room. A mottled-skinned, scrawny woman sat hunched over the table, alone. Her hands resembled cloven hooves. She looked like a murderess.

  Jolyon. In the maddest of fits, on the strongest of drugs, she knew she could never harm him. Mrs Holt, Mabel – well, perhaps. In extremis. But never, never Jolyon.

  Dr Shepherd and Sarah had moved to the door. They stood there in conversation.

  ‘I can accompany you to the station after my rounds here. I am sure you will not wish to go alone.’

  ‘That is most kind of you. I do appreciate your time, Dr Shepherd.’

  ‘Not at all. And you may wish for some support when they question you. Inspectors can be sticky chaps. They might get a little rough when they ask where you have been all this time.’

  ‘It is a valid question. I have only myself to blame.’ Sarah slipped a finger beneath her collar. Something glimmered there.

  ‘Understandable, considering.’

  ‘I do hope you will treat her kindly, doctor. For as long as you are able. I know she has done dreadful things but . . . I do not like to think of her suffering unnecessarily.’

  Diamonds. There were diamonds at Sarah’s throat.

  ‘I will do my utmost. I cannot answer for Broadmoor, or Newgate, or wherever they may send her next.’

  Sarah turned to call into the room. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Bainbridge. God grant you some rest. I pray that in time you will understand what I have done. I cannot keep my silence forever. I must be free.’ She sighed. ‘Will you not at least wave me goodbye, my dear?’

  But Elsie was not looking at Sarah. Her eyes were focused on the mirror and the two figures reflected in the doorway.

  Everything was reversed. The arsenic-green dress, the bustle, the hat. Yet the face peering out beneath the brim was not a mirror image of Sarah’s. The nose was shorter, the cheeks fuller.

  Red-gold hair replaced the pile of Sarah’s own mousy locks.

  It did not look like Sarah at all. It looked like—

  ‘Well, goodbye, Mrs Bainbridge. Thank you for all you have done for me.’

  As she turned and closed the door, Elsie remembered where she had seen that face before.

  Hetta.

  Acknowledgements

  There are many ‘silent companions’ hidden behind my name on the cover of this book. I would like to take this opportunity to extend my heartfelt thanks to them all.

  Juliet Mushens, my wonderful agent, to whom the book is dedicated. You believed in my idea from the very start. I could never have come so far without your advice and encouragement. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

  The team at Raven Books, particularly my editors Alison Hennessey and Imogen Denny. You are the most intelligent, lovely people I could possibly have hoped to work with. Your enthusiasm for the story has kept me afloat and made the publication experience a delight. To David Mann – that cover! I will always be grateful that you packaged my writing so beautifully.

  My thanks to Hannah Renowden for alerting me to the existence of these creepy wooden figures and starting my mind rolling. Early readers Anna Drizen, Laura Terry, Sarah Hiorns and Jonathan Clark – your feedback was invaluable.

  I am indebted to Mimi Matthews and Past Mastery for comprehensive blogs that have assisted alongside my wider research. Also to the team at Harris & Hoole, Colchester, for keeping me caffeinated every day!

  Lastly, and most importantly, my husband Kevin. You have helped with plot points, brainstormed ideas and supported me through numerous book-related meltdowns. I love you with all my heart.

  A Note on the Author

  Laura Purcell is a former bookseller, she lives in Colchester with her husband and pet guinea pigs. Her second novel for Bloomsbury, gothic chiller The Corset, will be published in 2018.

  laurapurcell.com

  @spookypurcell

  First published in Great Britain 2017

  This electronic edition published in 2017 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  © Laura Purcell, 2017

  Laura Purcell has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work.

  This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

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