Leah was at the library for when the doors opened at half past nine. She was shown the microfiche collection, and how to use the machines, and was soon scrolling through the local papers from a century ago with her heart speeding in anticipation. Following a hunch, she started with the year that Robin Durrant’s discredited photographs were taken, and taking the hints from Hester’s letters, she started with the summer months. Not even halfway into August 1911, she caught her breath, clapping her hand over her mouth inadvertently. There it all was, just like that; the story stretching out for a few weeks, into the autumn of that year. She read, and read again, and tried to scribble a few key facts into her notebook, but her handwriting had gone wild and erratic, barely legible. Smiling, she gave up and pulled out her phone, ignoring the glare and tutting of the person using the machine next to her as she dialled Mark’s number.
‘Leah? Found something?’ he answered, and in his clipped tone she read something of the same ambiguity she herself had felt that morning. Storing this fact away for now, she took a deep breath.
‘I’ve found everything, Mark. It’s all here! And pictures… wonderful photos of Hester and Albert, and of the theosophist… Everything!’
‘You mean, something did happen? When?’
‘That summer – the summer Hester was talking about. The summer of 1911,’ Leah said, her voice tight with excitement. ‘And I think… I think I know why our soldier kept those two particular letters of Hester’s…’
‘Leah – tell me what happened! Was it a murder?’
‘Oh yes, there was a murder. A dreadful and violent one.’
‘Well, who was it? Who was killed? And by whom?’ Mark pressed.
11
August 4th, 1911
Dearest Amelia,
How I wish you were still here, to help and give me strength. This house is no longer a comfortable place. I don’t quite know where to start. Albert. Albert is not himself. He is strange and distant and so caught up in his desire to see the wretched elementals again that he has no space left in heart nor mind for me, or the parish, or his duties or anything. He eats little, and will no longer touch meat of any kind, and I have not seen him sleep in days. He has taken to lingering outside the inns and public houses of the district, preaching to passers-by about their many sins. Amy! I am quite distraught about it all! And I can trace only one possible cause of these unsettling changes – Mr Robin Durrant. Who is still lodging with us, after all these many weeks, though he contributes nothing to the running of the household. When I mentioned this to Bertie he seemed almost to find it funny. To find me funny. He describes Mr Durrant as ‘our esteemed guest’, and believe me – he could not possibly hold the man in higher esteem. Whatever Mr Durrant suggests, Albert agrees to. It is that simple. It’s as though my dear husband has quite lost his own mind!
Cat, our maid, is also beside herself. Albert saw her in one of the pubs in Thatcham, and declared that she must be dismissed for this misdemeanour. I protested, and spoke up for her, as I have come to like and value her; but it was only when Robin Durrant spoke up that she was allowed to stay. Albert insists that she be kept locked in her room at night, which she has been; but I understand that since her incarceration in London, confinement is something she really cannot abide, and she is most terribly upset every time the door closes. I think it’s a cruel and unnecessary thing to do, but Albert insists, and this time Robin chooses not to argue with him. Perhaps it amuses him to hear her in distress. Oh! I know I am writing terrible things about him, but suddenly I find that I do not trust him, and that I do not like him, and that I do not want him here!
Cat has a sweetheart, in town. That was why she was wont to go out in the evenings – to meet up with him. I thought when she first hinted at it that it was Robin Durrant with whom she was keeping trysts. I have seen them together, outside in the courtyard. Talking in a most familiar way. But he insists that he knows nothing about it, and actually I can’t think that Cat would be interested in him. Perhaps this is why I feel so much sympathy towards her, for if she loves this man as I love Bertie, then keeping her away against her will is even more inhumane of us. I suggested that she write him a note to explain her staying away for the time being, but she tells me that he cannot read. Poor, simple soul he must be. I have made sure Albert hears nothing about any of this. In his present mood I think he would march them straight to church and wed them, even if the most tenderness they had shared were a kiss, or a clasping of hands. It breaks my heart a little to think I am party to their being kept apart. For that is how I feel too – cut off from Albert, separated. I miss him, Amy!
I shan’t commit the details to paper, but a week or so ago, on the last occasion that Albert came up to our bed at night, something occurred which demonstrated to me just how the thing that is supposed to happen between us, as man and wife, should go. I understand, you will doubtless be relieved to hear, after all this time. But no sooner had I made this discovery than I found myself even further from my husband than I have ever been. He recoiled from me, Amelia. From the very touch of my hands. There. What possible direction can I go in from here? Because I know, though I can’t explain exactly how, that if there is to be any improvement between Albert and me from here on out, then it cannot happen while Robin Durrant remains in our lives, and under our roof. When he is here, it’s as though Albert is not. Or perhaps, I am not. Am I making sense?
Well. Perhaps you have read about our elementals in the paper? I understand that a couple of the national papers are printing the story now, after the storm of correspondence that followed the publication of the pictures in our local paper. It seems a great many people share your reaction to the photographs, Amy. Mr Durrant has yet to receive official support from the Theosophical Society, which annoys him greatly. He is petitioning them to send somebody to witness another picture being developed, to prove that the images are real. How do I know all this? By listening at doors, dear sister. Yes, in my own home! Albert’s pamphlet fares less well. He has yet to find a book shop to take on a stock of it, and has run an advertisement in the paper instead. He sends out two or three a day by mail order, for three pence apiece.
I wish you were here, with all my heart; and am also glad that you are not – for I would not wish the atmosphere of this house upon another living soul right now, let alone one as dear as you. But how about you? And your own troubles with Archie? I do so hope you have managed to come back to some state of accord, and that your house is a happier one than mine. I wish I had some advice to give you, but I am fearfully ignorant. I can’t think what advice you will have for me, mine being such an unusual and unwelcome set of circumstances. But if you do have any, please dearest sister, write it soon and send it to me. I am not sure what to do, what not to do, or how much longer I can stand it all.
With all my love,
Hester
1911
When the key turns in the lock, there comes such a roaring in Cat’s ears that she fears her head might explode. It doesn’t matter that Mrs Bell’s face is heavy with anxiety and displeasure as she does it. It does not matter that through the window the moon still rises, and sets the glass ablaze with silver light. It does not matter that come morning she will be let out again. None of it matters but that she is a prisoner again, and powerless, and hasn’t the freedom to come or go as she may. She is like The Gentleman’s canary, which tipped its head at him and would not sing. Silence was its last weapon, the last thing of its own that it had control over. Cat’s voice is her last thing. In fear, in rage, she shouts at the door, shouts her throat raw; shouts to be louder than the thumping inside her head. She will not rest, and neither will the household. She hammers her fists against the wood; stamps her feet; curses and swears and sobs. She thinks she is loud, too loud for anybody to ignore. But when at last she slumps, exhausted, to the floor, she can hear Sophie Bell’s snores, sawing gently from two doors down the hall.