by JJ Marsh
Frankie clapped her hand over her mouth. “Me and my big mouth. Should have remembered I’m talking to an ex-copper.” She dropped her voice. “I was here that weekend, but I didn’t tell anyone. I always come home for my birthday, but because it falls on or around St Nicholas Day, they keep voting for me to play The Winter Queen again and again. It isn’t fair, specially as I don’t even live here anymore. It was time for someone else to have a go, so I told a white lie and said I wouldn’t be here that weekend.”
“That was a nice gesture,” said Gabriel. “We voted for Kimberley Damerel this year and she did a grand job.”
“She did,” said Frankie, nodding. “Her hair looked gorgeous against that dress.”
Marianne put down her glass of punch. “Maybe I should stick to Prosecco. I’m a bit of a lightweight at the best of times.”
“Luke, pass me that glass so I can give your Auntie Marianne some Prosecco. Who said you could have crisps?”
Luke handed over the glass and pointed at Beatrice.
“Sorry, I should have asked, but it is Christmas.”
“Yes, it is Christmas,” echoed Luke and with childlike cunning, changed the subject. “Frankie, when are you going to babysit for me again?”
“Whenever you like, my little superhero.”
“How about tomorrow night?” asked Gabriel. “Because I’d like to take Tanya out for dinner. If you’re free?” he asked.
Tanya looked taken aback but not displeased. “Er ... OK, why not!”
“Yes!” Luke did his little fist pump and it was all Beatrice could do not to join him.
Matthew wandered over to join them, his personal tankard in hand.
“Merry Christmas, everybody! I just got this and thought you’d like to see.” He passed his mobile phone to Beatrice. The screen showed a photo message.
The image showed two men on a beach in swimming trunks, carrying snorkels and each wearing a synthetic silver beard.
Beneath the picture there was a caption.
“Merry Christmas, St Nicholas! Love from St Barts! xx”
There was a collective ‘aww’ and the buzz of conversation continued. Frankie went to collect empty glasses, Matthew sat down to chat to Gabriel and the sisters were arguing over whether St Barts was French or English speaking. A roar of laughter erupted from the bar and she saw Gordon in the middle of it all, holding a piece of mistletoe over his head. Her attention was drawn to Frankie, who had bent down to whisper in Heather’s ear. The schoolteacher was listening intently, her expression severe and her eyes on Susie. When Frankie had finished, she straightened and walked back the bar, passing her mother with a reassuring smile. Both women glanced over at the corner table by the door, where Glynis Knox sat with Demelza Price and her sisters.
Her observations were interrupted by Luke, who wanted to tell Beatrice all about the mobile phone he had been given for Christmas. She devoted her attention to the small boy and his device, just occasionally allowing her gaze to drift over his head. For all the frivolity and good cheer in the room, a tension like an invisible spider’s web connected five women.
“...a selfie?”
“Sorry, Luke, what was that?”
“A selfie. Can I send Will and Adrian a selfie? So they can see my elf hat.”
“That’s a great idea! Why don’t you do it outside in the snow, to make it look like Greenland? Get Grandpa to take a photo of you and Huggy Bear, your ersatz reindeer.”
Luke needed no more encouragement. He tapped Matthew’s arm and began explaining his mission.
In the noisy bar, Beatrice focused on the fire and zoned out from her surroundings to make a decision.
A bell rang. “Last orders, ladies and gents!”
Susie held the bell in her hand, smiling at the punters crowding the bar, but her eyes sought Beatrice. She waggled a glass and raised her eyebrows.
Beatrice sensed five pairs of eyes watching her reaction. She lifted her glass. “No more for me, thanks. I’ve had quite enough. Merry Christmas, everyone!”
Chapter Thirty-One
“Are you awake?”
“I wasn’t. I am now.”
“I just wanted to ask you something.”
“What is it? I’m hog tired.”
“Today was just perfect.”
“It was. My ideal Christmas.”
Pause.
“Are you ever going to tell me what happened between you and Pam?”
Pause.
“Nothing to tell. We’re just keeping the peas.”
Pause.
“You are a bloody awkward female, but I love you, Beatrice Stubbs.”
Snores.
Chapter Thirty-Two
On the true Day of St Nicholas, Thursday the sixth of December, the village which bears his name does not rejoice. All rejoicing is postponed for two days till Saturday’s festival, when saintly celebrations happen at a time that suits everyone. Feverish sewing of costumes, decorations of tractors, last-minute music rehearsals, labelling of jams, allocation of stall space and car parking demarcation has worn everyone out. After the pub closes, the villagers make their way home through fallen leaves and the promise of a frost, each to dream of the festival, the biggest day of their year.
In the distance, a church clock strikes twelve, its sonorous bells echoing across the river, over the fields and into the woods. The village sleeps, not one window still lit. But for the occasional street lamps to give its presence away, a traveller might pass Upton St Nicholas without even knowing it was there.
Above, the cloudless sky deepens to a crow-black, with the new moon invisible to the naked eye. Without its dominant glow, stars sparkle all the brighter, like crystals of salt on Cornish slate. A stillness settles over the landscape. An owl screeches. In the undergrowth, leaves rustle. A fox padding past stops to listen, head cocked, only the tip of his brush visible as his rust-coloured coat blends into the forest floor.
Yet on this night of St Nicholas, nocturnal predators are not alone. At the edge of Appleford Woods, where the road widens to accommodate picnickers in summer, three figures walk single file into the midnight-black forest. Only once they are out of sight of the road does the leader switch on a torch to illuminate their path.
Without hesitation, they head for the clearing and the tall wooden platform at its centre. Now the two followers switch on their beams and all three make a steady sweep of their surroundings. Apparently satisfied, they kill all lights and lift their gaze upwards.
A dim glow from the platform above tells them they are expected. They begin to climb.
In the black canvas hide, three others await their arrival, seated in a semi-circle on the floor around a lantern, their faces lit by the steady flame.
The trio completes the ring and all six women push back their hoods.
Eyes flicker with uncertainty until one person withdraws a box. Everyone is transfixed as gloved hands open the lid. Instinctively, they all lean back.
Inside lies a mushroom. White, innocent and perfect.
The clock strikes one.
Message from JJ Marsh
I hope you enjoyed SNOW ANGEL. If you’re interested in a taste of AN EMPTY VESSEL, by Vaughan Mason, the first chapter is included at the end of this book. The complete novel is available here:
AN EMPTY VESSEL
Also in The Beatrice Stubbs Series:
BEHIND CLOSED DOORS
RAW MATERIAL
TREAD SOFTLY
COLD PRESSED
HUMAN RITES
BAD APPLES
For more information, visit jjmarshauthor.com
For occasional updates, news, deals and a FREE exclusive prequel: Black Dogs, Yellow Butterflies, subscribe to my newsletter.
If you would recommend The Beatrice Stubbs Series to a friend, please do so by writing a review. Your tip helps other readers discover their next favourite book.
Thank you.
Dedication
For my golden godgirls – Jessica, Cai
tlin and Emily
Acknowledgements
Snow Angel owes much to editors Catriona Troth, Liza Perrat, Jane Dixon Smith and Gillian Hamer, aka Triskele Books. Input from Florian Bielmann proved invaluable and many thanks to Julia Gibbs (proofreader) and JD Smith (cover design).
Also by Triskele Books
The Charter, Closure, Complicit, Crimson Shore, False Lights and Sacred Lake
by Gillian Hamer
Tristan and Iseult, The Rise of Zenobia, The Fate of an Emperor, The Better of Two Men, The Rebel Queen and The Love of Julius
by JD Smith
Spirit of Lost Angels, Wolfsangel, Blood Rose Angel, The Silent Kookaburra and The Swooping Magpie
by Liza Perrat
Gift of the Raven and Ghost Town
by Catriona Troth
http://www.triskelebooks.co.uk
An Empty Vessel
A novel by
Vaughan Mason
1
Nancy
They do like to lay it on a bit thick. That whole rigmarole. Black cap, which was more of a black cloth if you’re calling a spade a spade, the not-quite-silence of the courtroom and the deep, theatrical breath. He had to have his moment. And the language he used. ‘Hanged by the neck until you are dead’. I would have got it first time if he’d just said ‘hanged’. Don’t think anybody would have had their doubts, would they?
“What’s he mean by that then? Hanged a bit, or the whole hog?”
“Is she really going to swing?”
Is she?
Am I?
Nancy Maidstone, I will not seek to add further hardship to yourself or others in this courtroom by repetition of the details of this most distressing murder. I will content myself now with passing the sentence of the law, which is, that you be taken hence to the jail of Holloway; to a place of execution and be there hanged by the neck until you are dead; and that your body be afterwards buried within the precincts of the prison in which you shall be last confined after your conviction; and may the Lord have mercy upon your soul! Amen.
It’s quiet now. I’m sat on the cot, looking at me hands. Funny, how your hands show more about you than your face. These hands are all right. I couldn’t say they look like mine. They look older, harder, more capable than the rest of me. They look like my mother’s hands.
When Ma died, I remembered her hands. I can still picture the graceful scar right across the base of her thumb, a white arc like a crescent moon. That was from the biscuit tin when we had the bus crash. I can recall my mother’s hands far better than her face.
My fingernails are filthy. You could grow taters under there, my girl. Never used to let them get like that when I had my white coat on. Clean nails, tidy hair, it was all part of the job. What would be the point of a clean pair of hands now? I got what I expected. Got what I wanted and it won’t be long before I can bow out. Goodbye, then. And thanks, for my life.
What did I do? I killed. Mostly I killed kindly. It was what I wanted to do; it’s what I was trained to do. If killing is to be done, best ‘tis done kindly. Now it’s my turn. I’m sure they’ll do the same for me. If you have to go, they’ll try to make it painless. Nan, it’s almost done now. All you got to do is face it and take your medicine like a big girl. No bawling and snivelling, no dramatics nor hysterics. Don’t let yourself down. Deep breaths now, can’t get dizzy again.
I hit me own head on the basin when I came over a bit woozy earlier. At least it cheered the warders up. If I was to go base over apex again, they’d be delighted with that, wouldn’t they just? Wonder if they’ll be worse or better now I’m getting my ‘just desserts’? Or will they spit twice? Tell the truth, I’m past caring. This lot in here are different. You can tell they feel superior because they are in charge of the ‘condemned suite’. I’m in a suite now, don’t you know. It is and all. Three rooms, if you count the visitors’ cell. The one who brought me in said they’d be watching me all night. I was only under observation in the hospital wing, which means they have a look in every now and then. Wonder why? Is it in case I do away with myself? We wouldn’t want that now, would we? That would be a sin.
In my time, I’ve spent many hours with creatures breathing and bleeding their last. You have no idea how much they really suffer or if your presence is any use. Stroking and patting, trying to ease the pain. I heard once that fear is worse than pain for animals. That’s why I spoke soothing words to a condemned cow. Wonder who I was really helping? Poor old cow can’t tell me how she feels. Maybe the only one I helped feel better was meself.
I know about death, about the long old walk to the exit. But those creatures didn’t know it was coming. I do.
How do I prepare for something like that? Something like this.
Who’s looking after this poor old cow?
What happens? Is that it, lights out, thank you and goodnight? See, this is the trouble with religion. They go on at you for so long about heaven and hell and purgatory and afterlife and all, that even when you do give it a good hard look and realise that it don’t hold up, you can’t let go.
There’s got to be something, you say to yourself, even if I don’t go along with what the clergy tries to stuff down our throats. Good job I don’t believe in all the angels and harps business. Because think about it. If you believe in One, that means there’s the Other. Downstairs with Old Nick and his merry games. After all they said about me, what have I got to hope for?
No idea what time it is but I just woke up with a right start. Might be gone midnight. That means I’m due to die today.
I’m glad. I tell you, I am glad. Half of me wants to get up off this blanket and do a jig. Here and now in this bare and echoing cell. But what with my giddy head and all, I’d just as well give it a rest. I can’t help but smile, though. No more of it. No one can get at me any more. No fellas in wigs, asking me over and over the same old story. No police, no doctors, no guards nor no relatives. No vicars, no priests. And nobody out there is allowed anywhere near me.
The prison officers did a funny stunt with the Black Marias and an Army van, so that the people outside didn’t know it was me. We went out far too early and had to drive all over the shop, so the guard said. Not to me, of course. They won’t hardly talk to me no more. She told one of the courtroom girls while we were waiting. She said to Marlene (that was her name and they knew each other from way back) the Army van was the decoy and the two paddywagons were supposed to be full of coppers. That guard was proud as punch, she was. Fooled old Joe Public. I couldn’t hear what was going on, but apparently the crowd gave the Army van a right battering. Because they thought I was in there. What they really wanted to do was to batter me.
Can’t tell if this is the shivers or the shakes. The first is all right. Shivers is natural, because I am cold, haven’t slept properly in weeks and all I’ve got is this blanket, which smells sour and mouldy. Shivers I’m used to. But the shakes aren’t really to do with here and now. Shakes are to do with before, what happened before and what’s going to happen after. If this is the shakes, well, I have to say it’s a first. This is the first time I have had the shakes about after.
Before today, there wasn’t a future, just the next day. I could never have got through the court case if I’d thought about the future. All I could manage was the next twenty-four hours. Get up, try to clean up as best I could, eat up my rations such as they were and go to court. Listen, try to understand; try to care.
Trouble is, it was lovely and warm in the courtroom and all those voices went on and on. I had the hardest job staying awake. I could feel, even with my eyes forced wide open, my head lolling a bit. If I closed my eyes for a second, it would be all over. It happened, more than once. Usually, the lawyer lady spotted it and nudged me awake. Good Lord and Peggy Martin, but it was hard.
See, with all the thoughts and worries to think and worry about, not to mention the blinking awful dreams, I could hardly sleep nights. Leave alone them vindictive guards who loved to bang and clatter enough
to scare the living daylights out of you, just when you’d dropped off. I wasn’t sleeping much.
But the courtroom, and I know how daft this sounds, was a safe place. All I had to do was sit in the warm, listen, look at people and answer questions. No-one could hurt me, they weren’t allowed. I saw the judge frown once, as my head jerked upright and my eyes flew open. Head lolling about.
You will be hanged from the neck until you are dead.
Can’t sleep tonight, although I ought to try. And why would that be, Miss Maidstone? Going somewhere, are we? Got plans for later in the week? Don’t matter whether I sleep or stare at the patch of reflected sodium light in the corner. This is no longer my room. I shall be checking out in the morning. Could you make up my bill, there’s a good chap? I am on my way out, and don’t bother yourself about my bags.
and that your body be afterwards buried within the precincts of the prison in which you shall be last confined after your conviction; and may the Lord have mercy upon your soul! Amen.
Amen.
I wonder if they let anyone in at all. No, they wouldn’t, would they? That horrible woman said that in America, they let the family of the victim watch the execution. Sometimes the condemned person’s family comes along too. What a thought. What must they see in one another’s eyes in a situation like that? Still, we’re not in America, so I should be grateful for small mercies. Not that I’d have anyone from my side to watch. Not any more. Frank wouldn’t come. He’s washed his hands of me. Changed his name, so they said. I can’t blame him.
When they first brought me in here, that must have been three or four months back, the first visitor I had was Frank. I was surprised by that. I wasn’t expecting anyone at all. They only allow close family and Frank was all I had left. Frank coming to a women’s nick. Poor beggar. What a thing to have to deal with for a man.