Stephen Read online

  Her smile broadened, while at the same time seeming a little less genuine.

  “Would it be alright if I go over and say hello?” I asked, looking at the silent crib. “I don't want to disturb him if he's sleeping, but -”

  “Of course you can say hello. Please.” She let go of my arm, and I remember seeing tears in her eyes. “He'll be so pleased to see you.”

  I hesitated for a moment, assuming that she would be joining me, but finally I realized that she meant for me to go alone. Stepping away from her, I began to make my way across the large, sparsely-decorated nursery, and I remember very clearly the sound of the floorboards creaking under my feet. In truth, those creaks were the only sound in the room, which I found a little surprising since in my limited experience at the convent babies were always rather noisy things. Still, I told myself that little Stephen must merely be asleep, and that this was a sign of a happy and contented child.

  “I'm sorry he's crying now,” Mrs. Brooks said suddenly, as I was almost at the crib. “I'm sure he'll be fine once you pick him up.”

  Stopping, I turned to her. “I beg your pardon?”

  “The noise,” she continued, her voice clipped and precise in the silent room. “He does rather have a pair of lungs on him, doesn't he? I hope the crying doesn't put you off. He's not always like this.”

  “Well, I don't...”

  My voice trailed off, and it was at that moment that I began for the first time to worry a little about Mrs. Brooks. I knew full well that there was no baby crying in the room, yet she was smiling with the most profound and obvious sense of maternal pride, and it seemed that she truly believed she could hear little Stephen making a noise. I hesitated, in case she might say something that would explain her strange claim, but then she gestured for me to go on, so I had no choice but to turn once more and face the crib.

  I could not see inside, not yet, but I was starting to wonder whether in fact the crib might be empty.

  “Stephen, don't cry so much!” Mrs. Brooks called out from behind me. “This is your new friend, her name is Beryl Seaton and I'm sure you'll get on marvelously. Just be nice and welcoming to her, won't you? That's Mummy's little boy!”

  I turned to her.

  “Well go on,” she laughed, once again waving at me to keep walking. “He won't bite!”

  I opened my mouth to ask what she meant, but in truth I was utterly confused. She was acting as if she heard cries, yet I knew there were no cries in the room.

  I now turned and watched the crib with a growing sense of dread, but I knew that I had no choice. I began to step forward again, but deep down I was worried that I was going to find the crib entirely empty, and that I had inadvertently been drawn into a strange and unusual situation. But then, just as I got closer the edge of the crib, I noticed a rather sour smell in the air, a smell that instantly made me feel rather revolted.

  And then my heart sank like a stone, deeper than I ever thought possible, as I reached the crib's side and looked down. Nestled amid pristine white sheets, there lay a baby that was discolored and still.

  And quite dead.

  “Oh, he's still crying,” Mrs. Brooks said with a theatrical sigh, and I heard her hurrying up behind me.

  At first I could only stare down at the child. He was wrapped in the most beautiful pale blanket, but it was clear that he was dead and that he had been for some time. His skin was horribly blotchy and had turned a kind of purplish-yellow in places with patches of bright and vibrant red. His eyes were open, but there was no life to them at all, and while one of his tiny hands was hidden beneath the sheets the other was poking out with its still fingers slightly curled.

  And the smell...

  Oh, I shall never forget that dirty, sweet smell.

  “Oh Stephen,” Mrs. Brooks continued, smiling as she stepped around to the other side of the crib and then looked down at the corpse, “whatever will Ms. Seaton think if you keep crying like this? She'll think you're a naughty little boy!”

  She glanced at me.

  “Isn't he beautiful?” she added.

  Not knowing what to say, I could only stare at her grinning face.

  “I know what you're going to say,” she continued. “He does look a little like his parents, doesn't he? Just a tad. He especially has the Brooks family nose, like his father.”

  I watched in horror as she reached down into the crib. She slipped her hands beneath the dead child, adjusted her grip slightly, and then began to lift him from the sheets. I saw the way she supported his head, as if she was worried that it might loll back, and I heard the sound of the blankets rustling as the poor woman held the child against her chest. There was a faint rustling sound, too, which I took to perhaps be coming from the corpse itself. The boy's dead eyes stared past me – almost at me – as he lay cradled in his mother's arms, and then as he was gently rocked.

  “That's better,” Mrs. Brooks purred, before glancing at me with a smile. “See how he calms down as soon as I pick him up? I try not to give into him, I know it's weak of me, but I just can't help myself. You don't think I'm a terrible mother, do you?”

  “I -”

  “Perhaps I spoil him,” she added, rolling her eyes. “That's not the worst crime in the world, though, is it? If all mothers who spoil their children were locked away, why, there'd be no mothers left! And then where would we be?”

  Leaning down, she kissed Stephen on the forehead.

  “We don't want Mummy being locked away, do we?” she asked, before looking at me again. “You don't think I'm a bad mother, do you? He's stopped crying. That's the most important thing, isn't it? Or do you think I'm doing wrong?”

  I remember opening my mouth to reply to her, but my lips felt impossibly dry and I was beginning to wonder whether I was losing my mind. And then, as I stood frozen and shocked, Mrs. Brooks began to carry Stephen around the crib, bringing him closer and closer. With each step, the rotten stench became stronger and stronger.

  And that is why, without saying another word, I finally turned and fled the room, ignoring Mrs. Brooks' calls for me to return. I ran so fast, not even stopping to pick up my suitcase, and I made it all the way down the house's grand central staircase before suddenly slamming straight into Doctor Brooks, who immediately grabbed me tight by the shoulders. I tried to pull away, able only to think of the need to get out of the house as quickly as possible, but I was held too firmly and finally I stopped struggling.

  “I take it that you have met Stephen,” he said, with a glint of fear in his eyes. “Please come back with me to my study. You must have many questions.”

  Chapter Four

  “It must be very difficult for you to understand all of this,” Doctor Brooks said as I sat trembling in a chair next to the barely-burning fireplace. “You have spent your entire adult life living with nuns at a convent. It is only natural the real world surprises you.”

  “The child is dead,” I stammered, with tears in my eyes. “She holds him as if he's alive, but he's dead!”

  I tried to say more, but the tears began to overwhelm me and I quickly looked down at my lap. My hands were interlinked, and I felt that I would burst into convulsive sobs at any moment.

  “You are quite right,” Doctor Brooks continued. “Stephen died three months ago. That was also, coincidentally, his age at the time. He was three months old. Three short months. That is how long he was with us before he was so cruelly snatched away.”

  “Why is he not buried?” I stammered.

  “I'm sorry?”

  I turned to him. My bottom lip was trembling wildly. “Why is he not buried?”

  “I cannot understand you,” he replied. “Speak more clearly.”

  “Why is he not buried?” I asked for a third time, this time taking care to enunciate each word properly. “If he is three months dead, then surely...”

  My voice trailed off. I waited for an answer, but for a moment Doctor Brooks merely stared at me.

  “It is not time to bury him ye
t,” he said finally. “A plot has been reserved for him in the local cemetery, but he cannot be taken there until my wife is ready to accept his death. That was supposed to have happened by now but, as you have seen for yourself, there has been some delay. ” Getting to his feet, he made his way over to the drinks cabinet, where he took two glasses from a shelf. “Can I interest you in a glass of something, Ms. Seaton, to strengthen your nerves a little?”

  “He's dead,” I replied, barely able to say or think anything else. “He's up there in his crib and he's dead!”

  Doctor Brooks nodded. “Yes. I am fully aware of that fact.”

  “He's dead,” I continued, as a fresh tear trickled down my cheek. “He... I...”

  “It is perfectly normal for a dead child to remain with its mother for several months before the burial,” he replied, as he poured two glasses of what I believe was whiskey. I was not acquainted with such drinks at the time, nor am I now. “This is a sacred and respectful tradition that is observed in houses up and down the country, among families both rich and poor. It is a part of the process by which these things are dealt with.”

  “No,” I replied, shaking my head, “that cannot be true.”

  “You have lived your life in a convent,” he pointed out again. “Perhaps the nuns did not prepare you for every aspect of life in the real world.”

  “People do not carry dead children around and pretend that they are alive!” I replied.

  He stared at me for a moment, and I once again felt as if he was trying to read my thoughts.

  “They just don't,” I continued finally. “It's... I mean, it's not right. People don't do it!”

  “Yes they do,” he told me calmly. “Absolutely, they do. They treat them as if they are living, until the moment that they are ready to accept that they are dead.”

  “But -”

  “It is absolutely normal,” he added, cutting me off. “If the nuns did not teach you about this, then I can only wonder what other facets of everyday civilized life they might have ignored. Did they tell you, for instance, that good families go to church every Sunday?”

  “Of course.”

  “And did they tell you that we celebrate Christmas together?”

  “Yes, of course, but -”

  “And that we honor dead children by keeping them in the home until both parents are ready to let them go?”

  I stared at him, and no doubt I appeared utterly shocked.

  “No,” I said finally, “they told me no such thing.”

  “Well, we do,” he explained. “I promise you, Ms. Seaton. Up and down this country, indeed in every civilized Christian nation, dead children are treated in precisely the same manner.”

  If it seems that I was uncommonly gullible, then I can only plead that I had my reasons. Having been raised by the nuns, I had lived a somewhat sheltered life. They had tried to educate me about the wider world, of course, but they themselves warned me that there was much that I would have to discover for myself. And while it might seem shocking now – and indeed, I myself am shocked to recall these terrible events – the simple truth is that I lacked the confidence to challenge a man such as Doctor Elliot Brooks. I simply tried to understand how this gruesome ritual – which shocked me, which went against my very core – could have been a part of every day life. You must understand that the man telling me this lie was a doctor, and that I had the greatest of respect for doctors. It did not even occur to me that he might be lying.

  “This will help,” he said, walking over and setting a glass of whiskey on the table next to me.

  “Thank you,” I replied, my voice still trembling with shock, “but I do not imbibe alcohol.”

  “It has its uses, Ms. Seaton. So long as it is used medicinally and not for mere pleasure, that is. Please, drink.”

  “Nevertheless,” I said, “I shall not partake.”

  My hands were shaking, and I felt so dreadfully cold.

  “When I hired you to come and assist my wife with Stephen,” Doctor Brooks continued, taking a sip from his own glass, “I assumed that you understood the nature of the situation. Why, it never occurred to me that you could not, although perhaps I should have taken more note of your background. In addition, I feel that Mr. Smire could have done more to impress upon me the nature of your innocence in the world.”

  “Mr. Smire knew that Stephen was... I mean...”

  I pause for a moment.

  “That he was dead?” He nodded. “Of course. Why wouldn't he? Perhaps the man has been through the same thing himself, for all I know. It's really very common.”

  “I still do not see what good can come of such an arrangement,” I replied as I tried to retain some steadiness in my voice. “The child is dead, he should be in sacred ground by now. Nowhere does the Lord say that the bodies of the dead are supposed to be paraded around in this fashion. It's grotesque and distasteful!”

  “Yet I happen to have heard about several bishops who have done the exact same thing,” Doctor Brooks replied, “after suffering a similar tragedy. Bishops. Kings. In all the great houses of England, this precise ritual is observed. Honestly, it would be considered ungodly not to keep the child around for a while.”

  “That cannot be true,” I whispered, shaking my head. “It just cannot.”

  “I would not lie about such a sacred matter,” he continued. “Ms. Seaton, you must realize that in this regard you are completely out of step with the rest of the world. Now, if you cannot bring yourself to remain here, if you feel you must abandon us in our hour of need, than I must regretfully accept that decision. I sincerely hope, however, that you will find it in your heart to fulfill this simple and very common Christian duty. If your Mother Superior were here, she would surely tell you that you have a responsibility to do what you promised. She would tell you to look past your own prejudices, and to consider why you were directed to come here in the first place.” He paused. “Or are you going to break your word?”

  Looking back at that moment, I am horrified to see how easily I was manipulated. I see myself as a naive, gullible fool who was unable to comprehend that Doctor Brooks was tricking me. How I wish I could reach back now and tell that girl that she should run, that she should trust her own instincts. I wish I could relate that I saw through the deception, that I showed some level of initiative, but sadly that is not what happened. No, I crumpled completely, and I allowed myself to be fooled. I pushed away my own natural reaction and I forced myself to go against my own doubts.

  I still feel ashamed to this day.

  “My wife needs help,” Doctor Brooks added, as if to make doubly sure that I would not leave. “You must behave as if Stephen is alive, and then she will surely realize the truth. Anything else you might try would cause damage, and would harm her irreparably. Please, Ms. Seaton... Help us.”

  I sat in silence for a moment, genuinely not knowing what to say, but I think that deep down I had already made my decision. Every instinct in my body was telling me to leave, and I sensed that the situation at Grangehurst was gravely unnatural, yet I was too meek and too lacking in self-assurance to act on my own beliefs. Instead, I pushed my truest beliefs deep down and I let Doctor Brooks persuade me.

  “Please, Ms. Seaton,” he said, with a hint of genuine sorrow in his voice, “we need you. My wife needs you. I need you. As a Christian woman, will you help our family in its hour of need?”

  Chapter Five

  “Oh, you're so cute,” Mrs. Brooks was saying as I returned to the nursery. “Mummy's little boy has such a lovely laugh.”

  Stopping, I saw that she was sitting cross-legged on the floor. She had propped the dead child against the leg of a dresser, and there was the most genuine smile of happiness on her face as she leaned toward him and reached out. I watched with a sense of horror as she tickled his chin. I had seen people playing with dolls in the past, although I had not myself been allowed such frivolities at the convent; still, at that moment, Mrs. Brooks looked a lot like a woman playin
g with a doll, even if the doll in question was actually her own dead child.

  “You are beautiful, you know,” she continued, evidently unaware that she was being observed. “Mummies always say that about their children, but in this case I'm merely stating the truth. Everyone thinks you're beautiful, Stephen, they're always telling me. Why, do you remember the other morning when we were out for a walk and we met Margaret Alms from the church? I could tell that she meant every word when she said you're the bonniest baby in all the world!”

  At the time, I wondered whether she could really have taken the child out and met somebody. Now I know, of course, that she might well have done so, although I am sure anybody she met would have been horrified by the situation.

  “You're going to be a real heart-breaker when you grow up,” she said after a moment, stroking the side of Stephen's face, “but for now you're Mummy's little boy. And you like your new governess, don't you? She's so much nicer than that horrible governess you had before. Don't worry, Mummy won't let anything like that happen to you again. You're safe now and you always will be, and Ms. Seaton wouldn't dream of hurting you. Why, I trust her implicitly and I can tell that she's a very good, very pious woman and -”

  Suddenly she turned and looked at me, and I saw a moment of shock in her eyes before her features settled into a more relaxed smile.

  “Well, here she is right now,” she continued. “Hello, Ms. Seaton. Stephen and I are so pleased to see you again. Why don't you come in and play with us awhile?”

  It was only now that I noticed the teddy bear on the floor, next to Mrs. Brooks' knee. Picking the bear up, she held it out toward the dead child and then laughed, waving the bear around as if she hoped to provide some entertainment. She was cooing and ahhing and making all sorts of effort, and I'm sure that a living child would have been enthralled.