‘This one,’ said Sarah. She extended a finger and let the tip hover an inch away from the painting. ‘Do you see? Behind the woman’s skirts?’
It was a baroque piece, close to the style of Vermeer. A plump blonde woman with tired eyes sat before a birdcage. She held out her hand to a sparrow perched inside. Light hit them from the left, falling full upon her face. She was pretty, if a little jowly. Coral ribbons threaded through her hair, echoing the shade of the fur-trimmed mantle about her shoulders. Butter-cream skirts tumbled out from her waist, and clutching at them was a girl. A fey girl with that odd, puppet-like appearance prevalent among children in early portraiture. She did not look at the sparrow but gazed, intently, up at the lady’s face.
Giddiness washed over her. ‘It’s her. Sarah, it’s her. It’s the same girl as the companion.’
Hiss.
Elsie’s fingers clutched Sarah’s sleeve, wrinkling the lavender fabric. ‘Do you hear . . .?’
‘The builders,’ Sarah said softly.
Elsie gulped a breath. Air rushed into her lungs, soured by the taste of paint. Of course, it was not the sound that came at night, so reminiscent of a saw – it was a real saw. Real decorators, ready to make her house presentable. ‘Of course. I forgot.’
Sarah returned to the picture. ‘I thought she looked like the companion too. Perhaps a bit younger. But here is the really interesting thing. Look at the writing on the frame.’
‘Sixteen-thirty,’ Elsie read.
‘Yes. And the name. Anne Bainbridge with her daughter Henrietta Maria.’
‘Henrietta Maria.’
‘But they called her Hetta.’
‘How do you know?’
‘She is one of my ancestors! Hetta, the gypsy boy, the companions – they are all in the diary we found in the garret. Poor Hetta was mute. Her mother wasn’t meant to have any more children, but she took some herbs and Hetta was born without a proper tongue. Poor girl! You know how it was in those days, they thought afflicted children were cursed. She was left out of everything. Just a sweet, lonely girl . . . I cannot believe – I mean, even supposing that her eyes did move . . .’
‘They moved.’
‘Well.’ Sarah’s brows drew together. She had never laughed – Elsie was eternally grateful for that. Sarah tackled the problem as if it were a complicated sum that needed to be solved. ‘What if the wooden figure is channelling the spirit of this Henrietta Maria Bainbridge? Does it follow that she means us harm? I cannot believe it.’ She shook her head. ‘Hetta just wants someone to look after her. A friend. She was so alone. I know how that feels.’
Elsie shuddered. ‘Is this what we have come to now? Talk of ghosts and spirit possession?’
‘Do you not believe in the spirits?’ Sarah looked astounded. Elsie might as well have said she didn’t believe in colour. ‘I can assure you they are real, Mrs Bainbridge. I’ve seen them. A mesmerist visited Mrs Crabbly, and a medium, to contact her dead husband. All the rich old ladies do it in London. It’s quite safe. It’s a science. There’s nothing to be afraid of.’
Then why did her pulse beat so thick? ‘I am afraid. I’m afraid of the gypsy companion and the woman with the child on her lap. There’s something the matter with them. They feel . . . wrong.’
‘Perhaps what you saw on the glass was Hetta’s hand, reaching out to us? We should try to make contact with her. I’ve read a book about séances. I attempted to summon my parents once—’
Elsie groaned. ‘In God’s name, no! You must stop talking as if this is a real child. I had Mrs Holt lock her in the cellar with all the others, for goodness’ sake!’
‘It’s not as foolish as it sounds. There was a real child. This picture and the diary prove it. I am trying to recall what happened in the last diary entry I read . . . Anne’s husband gave her your diamond necklace, I remember that. Did you know it was commissioned especially for the visit of Charles I?’
‘That is hardly relevant right now.’
‘No, I suppose not . . . Oh yes, poor Hetta was forbidden to attend the court masque! Her father was afraid she would shame him.’
Elsie took a steadying breath and tried to conceal her irritation. ‘I doubt a spirit would take the trouble to haunt us over a court masque she missed two hundred years ago.’
‘No,’ Sarah said thoughtfully. ‘There must be something else. I will have to finish reading the diary. If only I had grabbed the second volume before the garret door jammed!’
‘The man is working on the door now. When he is done we will fetch the book and see if we can find a clue.’
There was a way forwards, she just had to keep her terror under control for a while longer. In two weeks it would be Christmas. Her new dresses would arrive and Jolyon would come down. He would bring plum pudding, oranges studded with cloves, parcels wrapped in coloured ribbon; all the warmth and vibrancy she had lacked. Everything would be all right once Jolyon arrived, she told herself.
Then she heard the scream.
‘Mabel! It sounds like Mabel.’
They tumbled down the corridor to the Lantern Gallery. Mrs Holt and Helen galloped up the staircase from below to meet them. Helen still had a wet apron and a wooden clothes-beater in her hand. She wielded it like a weapon.
‘Mrs Bainbridge! Miss Bainbridge. What is the matter?’ Mrs Holt looked stricken.
‘We don’t know,’ Sarah said. ‘We think it’s Mabel, upstairs.’
Their feet thumped on the risers. Elsie was out of breath and her bodice cut under her arms, but she managed to gain the landing first. She took three steps before colliding with a shape hurtling in the opposite direction.
‘Mabel! Mabel!’ The girl looked almost feral. Tears streamed down her face. Elsie seized her shoulders and held her steady. ‘What has happened?’
‘How could you? How could you?’ Her fists pounded against Elsie’s breast. ‘How can you be so wicked? Oh, oh!’
‘What? What are you talking about?’
‘You know! You know!’ Mabel’s knees gave way; she crumpled to the floor. ‘It weren’t funny. I was that scared . . .’ She began to sob.
Elsie released her and looked helplessly from Sarah to Mrs Holt and then to Helen. ‘Helen, can you try to get some sense from her?’
Helen laid her beater on the floor. Tentatively, she placed a hand on Mabel’s shoulder. ‘Hush, now. What happened? It wasn’t . . .’ She dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘Did you see another one?’
‘She – she—’ Mabel could barely speak. ‘She must have put it in my room. Knows I hates them! All part of some – some joke!’
Prickles darted up and down Elsie’s skin. ‘What is in your room, Mabel?’
‘As if you don’t know! One of them things!’
She looked at Sarah. ‘No. That cannot be. Mrs Holt locked all the companions in the cellar. I saw her do it.’
‘Not this one. I never seen it before.’
Blood thumped in her ears. ‘No. No, I will not believe this.’
Rigid with determination, Elsie stalked down the corridor. She would see it with her own eyes. She would prove them wrong.
The door swung open with ease, revealing Mabel’s narrow bed, the washstand and the prints on the wall.