“You're cold,” he said, and reached out for the coal bucket but found it empty.
“I'm always cold.”
“Shall I ask Wilcox to get us more coal?”
“No, there's no need for that, Detective Sergeant. This isn't going to take long.” She coughed. “I am desperately ill, as you can see. I shall go back to bed as soon as you're done, so please, will you just ask your questions and go.”
“Very well.”
He leaned back in his armchair and commenced the interview.
“I wonder if you could tell me how you came to live here on the moors.”
“My husband owned the ironworks.”
“Your husband was Thaddeus Thornton. He died in 1877… Or was it 1878?”
Her nostrils flared with impatience.
“I don't remember precisely when. There had never been much affection between us. He was so much older than I. He was already fifty when we married and I but eighteen. I came up here from Surrey. Mrs Whipple's School for Girls had been my whole life before then. I attended it from the age of four and taught in it for three years before my father arranged the union.
“I was used to the lush green lawns of Mrs Whipple's school. The leafy orchards and the duck pond. I was not prepared for the bleakness and harshness of these moors. Or the wind. That cold, constant wind. This house is so big, Mr Billings, and so dark and draughty. Mr Thornton became ill shortly after Roger was born and his health started deteriorating rapidly after that. He died seven years later. I blame this cold, damp place. It killed my husband and now it's slowly killing me.”
Mrs Thornton spoke in a soft, quiet voice and kept staring at the single flame in the fireplace as she did so. She continued to shiver throughout the interview and fidgeted nervously with the rings on her fingers, as if struggling against some terrible discomfort. It was cold in the room, certainly, but there was something else going on. Billings recognised the signs immediately; the restlessness, the trembling, the breathlessness. She was suffering from withdrawal symptoms. What was her poison? he wondered. Cocaine? Opium?
“So I was left alone,” she continued. “Stranded on these desolate moors with a large share in the ironworks, which hangs like a millstone around my neck.”
“Why don't you leave?”
“Why don't I leave? You are actually asking me that? Of course you are! People like you have no conception of what it means to have money. You are perfectly content to wallow in your own poverty, hating and envying your superiors. You don't know the burden it is to be wealthy. How could you? Of course I can’t leave! I shall never be able to leave. I am a major shareholder in the most important commercial concern in these parts. The very existence of the works and the livelihood of the local community depend on my continued presence. I have a whole army of relatives and dependants scattered throughout the land who rely on the monthly remittances I pay them. Not to mention the various charities dependent on my annual donations. And of course, until recently, I had a son whose future I was desperate to secure by my continued presence here. No, Detective Sergeant Billings. It's easy to pack your bags and leave when you have nothing to lose, but people with money do not have that luxury.
“One month after my husband's death, knowing that I would now never have the daughter I'd longed for since I was a little girl, I spread the word around Grosmont that I was looking to adopt a ward. That's how Bella came to live amongst us. She was the prettiest and most charming of the various girls who came to visit us, and she became a loyal companion to me and a good sister to Roger. But she's still a common girl and does not have that innate elegance, that refinement of breeding, that wonderful natural radiance, which my dear Roger had. My son was my prince, my rock, my life. And now he's gone.”
She broke down then. Buried her face in her hands and shuddered through a series of stifled sobs. Billings looked away awkwardly, poking the fire as he waited for Mrs Thornton to collect herself.
“I'm sorry,” she said as she wiped away her tears with a black-bordered handkerchief.
“No, please, please...”
“I remember the day he was taken ill. I remember it so vividly. It is imprinted on my mind and on my heart. Although I didn't know it then, it was the day that would change my life for ever. Yeardley was delivering some old clothes donated by the parish. He used to collect them once a year and bring them here, where I would mend them with my sewing club and donate them to the poor. Roger had seen him come up the drive and rushed downstairs to alert me.
“'Mother, Yeardley's here,' he called as he skipped down the stairs like a hare. 'It's a bonanza! The wagon is practically tipping over under its weight.'
“He entered the drawing room and saw me standing by the fire, rubbing my tired eyes and massaging my temples.
“'What's the matter?' he asked.
“'Nothing darling, I'm perfectly well. I shall go out and receive Yeardley in a second.'
“'Do you have a headache again? Shall I tell him to come back another day?'
“'No, don't do that. He's come all the way from Highfield Grange.'
“'But if you have a headache...'
“He came towards me and gently pulled my hands off my face.
“'Mother, you're pale. And you're cold.'
“'I'm always cold.'
“'Oh, Mother, let me warm you.'
“He wrapped his arms around me and started rubbing me warm. I instantly felt the pain in my head ease as his strong arms held me in a tight grip. I can still recall the scent of lavender mixed with his own sweet odour wafting up from beneath his shirt; the sensation of his golden locks against my nostrils. I never felt more safe and secure than when I was sheltered in my son's embrace.
“'There now, that's better, isn't it?' he said, as he gently held my face and looked into my eyes. 'I can't see you like this, Mother. I won't. Now, you stay here by the fire and have a rest. Bella and I will receive Yeardley.'
“He was always so attentive to me. All the others, they just take. There are salaries to be paid, cheques to be handed out, documents which require my signature, day in, day out. Take! Take! Take! Roger was the only one who ever showed me real kindness. And he was always so involved in my charities when he was here.
“Of course, there wasn't much else for him to do. There were some young local men he'd play cards with in the village. He'd slip out in the evenings and stay out all night. Oh, I knew. Of course I knew. It's what young men do. It's their privilege. They have no responsibilities at that age. All that comes later; the pressure, the drudgery, the futility of it. Let him enjoy life while he still can, I thought. So I turned a blind eye. But that was my greatest mistake. Because it made him ill. The sleepless nights; the heavy drinking; the long rides to the village over the cold, frosty moors. Roger looked strong, but he had a weak constitution. Like his father.
“He fell over on the gravel that day when he went out to meet Yeardley. I can still hear the thud he made and the alarmed cries from Bella and Yeardley which followed. They echo in my head and ring in my ears. I ran to the window immediately and saw my son lying on the gravel, his face pale as a sheet, and Yeardley and Bella running towards him.
“Have you any children, Mr Billings? No? Well, then, you won't know that instinct a parent has when something bad has overtaken their child. I knew straight away that this was no ordinary fall and instantly rushed out of the house to help him.
“Roger had already recovered by the time I stepped outside and was being lifted back on to his feet by Bella and Yeardley.
“'What happened?' I cried.
“'Roger fell over,' said Bella.
“'The lad fainted,' Yeardley added.
“'I did not faint,' the proud boy protested as he put his hands to his head and struggled to maintain his balance. 'I must've slipped or...'
“'Yeardley, help me take him inside,' Bella ordered.
“'Please, Bella, don't fuss! I'm perfectly all right...' But they ignored Roger’s words, dragged him into
the house and placed him in the armchair by the fireplace.
“He had a fever. He had not been feeling well for several days, it turned out, and had been hiding his symptoms, the proud stubborn boy, but the fever had gone to his head now and he started to deteriorate rapidly.”
“Did you call for a doctor?”
“No, I did not call for a doctor, Mr Billings!” said Mrs Thornton, frowning. “Grosmont is twenty miles from here. What could a doctor do! My son had a fever, which was brought on by an infected wound in his arm.”
“How did he get that?”
“I don't know. It must have been the result of one of his nightly escapades. Martha had treated it with garlic. She knows about these things. Her son's a medical student. We put Roger to bed and he slept for the rest of the day. Soundly. Peacefully. He remained weak for another few days and we decided to bring him downstairs, to the room you now occupy. It was more convenient for the servants to attend to him there. But this change seemed to have a detrimental effect on him, because that night the delirium started.
“I came into his room to bid him goodnight and saw him turning restlessly in his bed. He had cast his sheets off and his face was clammy with sweat. His eyes were closed and he was muttering something.
“'April! April!' he said.
“'What is it, darling? What do you want?' I asked, walking towards him. I hadn't realised he was sleeping.
“'April!' he repeated.
“'No, my dear. It's December. It's a cold and miserable December.'
“'I must see April!'
“'And you will, my dear. You'll soon get better.'
“Abruptly he sat up. His eyes were open now, but he was clearly not awake.
“'What are you doing, darling? You mustn't get up,' I told him.
“He ignored me, got out of bed and headed for the door.
“'I want to see April!' he repeated.
“'Not now, dear. It's cold still. It's only December. It'll be Christmas soon.'
“I grabbed his hand and gently coaxed him back into his bed without waking him. I’d heard that you must never wake a somnambulist. He’d had a foreboding. He knew he wouldn't live to see another spring… And he so loved watching the moors come to life. He was ill for a week longer. We nursed him day and night. Wilcox and Bella and... and the others, they all took turns attending to my son.
“On the morning of the seventh day I heard a knock on my door. Bella came in slowly, her face pale as a sheet. I knew immediately what it meant.
“'Bella, my dear! It has happened, hasn't it?' I said. 'He's dead!'
“She didn't reply, kept looking around her. Searching for something. Then she walked over to the window, her face still filled with terror.
“'What is it?' I asked. 'What are you looking for?'
“'Has he come in here?' she asked me.
“'In here? Who?'
“'Roger. I was supposed to keep watch, but I fell asleep. And when I woke up, he was gone.'
“'Gone? What do you mean, gone?'
“'His bed was empty. He's been so restless lately. I thought perhaps...'
“Somewhere in the middle of the night, Detective Sergeant, Roger walked out on to the moors in a feverish delusion, looking for spring. Bella and Wilcox found him that afternoon in the old stables by the stream. Exposure had killed him. So there you have it. I’ve told you my story. The same one I told that policeman from York. We've all given our testimony. Twice. There is nothing more to say. Now, when will you leave us? Tomorrow?”
Billings remained silent, staring at her for a while. He was still going through her statement in his head. It was an eloquently told story, which did not differ in any respect from the statement she had given to the Yorkshire police. In fact, it felt a little too similar, too eloquent, too well rehearsed.
“It's still not clear to me, Mrs Thornton,” he asked eventually, “why you did not call for a doctor?”
She frowned again.
“Oh, the doctor, the doctor! Why is everybody always asking me about the doctor?”
“If a doctor had had the chance to see the body before you buried it, Mrs Thornton, my presence here might not have been necessary. You could have had an inquest which would have answered the questions I am now forced to ask. I do not understand why you had to arrange such a hasty funeral.”
“It is the custom here, Detective Sergeant, to bury a body quickly. Why should I allow the doctor to examine my son’s corpse? And what precisely do you think you are doing with this hostile questioning? Are you accusing me? Is that what this is? Are you trying to blame me for my son's death? Very well then, I confess! I should have called for a doctor. I admit it. I was stubborn! I was proud! I was stupid! If being stupid is a criminal offence, then arrest me now!”
She put her hands to her face, as though about to break down again, but took a deep breath and collected herself.
“The truth is, Detective Sergeant,” she continued, in a calmer, almost apologetic tone, “Roger's illness broke me. I became a wreck. I couldn't endure seeing my son slowly fade away. I sat with him for four days. After that I sought refuge in my own rooms. I locked myself in, closed my eyes to the tragedy and slept. All the time my son lay dying in his room I slept, hoping he'd recover by the time I woke up. I abandoned him and the servants were too deferential to raise any objection.”
“You haven't said anything about Gracie.”
“Well, what about her?”
“According to the testimony given to York police, she was found inside the stable, sitting on the ground, clasping your son's dead body in her arms.”
Mrs Thornton winced.
“Must you remind me!”
“How do you explain that?”
“I don't know, do I? Nobody knows. She must have seen him walk outside and followed him to try and coax him back in. Only she knows what was going on in that simple mind of hers. You should go to the asylum and ask her.”
“I did.”
Mrs Thornton seemed taken aback to hear this.
“When?”
“I visited her in her cell before coming here.”
“And did you speak to her? I thought Gracie didn't speak.”
“She does speak, Mrs Thornton, though it’s true most of it makes no sense.”
“How is she?”
“Highly disturbed. She no longer recognises the border between polite behaviour and that which is unacceptable to civilised society.”
Mrs Thornton’s austere face reflected the disgust she felt at this careful summing up of Gracie’s condition. She raised one hand, warning him not to elaborate.
“The trauma has made her insane,” Billings stated so that there could be no misunderstanding
“Gracie always was insane! But she was harmless. There's no reason to suspect she was in any way involved in the death of my son. He was deathly ill before he ventured out on to the moors. It was the chill that killed him. I see no need to subject us any further to these painful recollections, Detective Sergeant. Gracie is now in a place where she will be looked after and I wish to be left in peace to mourn the death of my boy. Please tell me when you intend to leave.”
Billings hesitated briefly.
“Tomorrow morning,” he said finally.
Mrs Thornton seemed a little taken aback by this sudden announcement and looked at him wide-eyed before collecting herself and resuming her air of hauteur.
“Good,” she said, as she stood up from her seat. “I shall tell Wilcox to arrange a carriage for you first thing.” She left him in sole possession of the morning room.
Billings remained sitting in his armchair, staring pensively at the dying fire. He had no intention of leaving, of course, but couldn’t bring himself to tell Mrs Thornton that. The truth was that her performance (and it was a performance) had moved him. There was real pain reflected in that proud, handsome face, and a desperate plea for him not to uncover a truth which was so gruesome, so painful, so horrific, that it might kill her were
it ever exposed. He felt as though he were unwrapping a wound. Unwinding a bandage from a putrid sore. As he reached the innermost layers, he could see the blood seeping through the gauze. Did he really want to expose that to the open air and leave it vulnerable to further infection? What use could it possibly serve?
6. The Demon of Temptation
The wind was howling outside. It swept down through the chimney and whistled its way into the room. A door in the corridor kept creaking and banging, and the eddying draught was rolling the syringe up and down the floorboards. Billings felt as though he were on a ship, rocked by the waves. He pulled the blankets over his head and pressed his pillow to his ear. He had taken a whole ampoule of morphine so why couldn’t he sleep?
Suddenly a great gust blew the window wide open, causing the shutters to slam against the wall. He sat up, alarmed. He could see the curtains billowing as the wind continued to rush into the room.
God damn this confounded storm! he thought as he stuck his legs out from beneath the blankets and put them on the cold floor. He was about to get up and close the window when he became aware of someone else in the room. Over by the wardrobe, on the far side, he could see the silhouette of a man, standing still with his hands behind his back, staring at Billings. He froze. The other man was tall and slim with broad shoulders. His short hair lifted in the breeze. The collar and top buttons of the man’s shirt were undone. Moonlight turned his pale flesh to silver.
“Who are you?” asked Billings, climbing back into bed and puling the covers over him for protection.
The man stepped closer. The moon shone on his face and illuminated his deep blue eyes. It was Roger Thornton.
Of course, Billings thought, and sighed with relief. This was a dream. Another strange, morphine-induced dream. He hadn’t had one of those for a long time.
“What do you want?” he asked as Roger approached the bed.
“What’s it like to be dead?” he answered.
“Dead? What do you mean, dead? You're the one who's dead.”
“Only from the outside.”
Billings suddenly heard the sound of sniggering. He turned towards the door and saw Wilcox, Martha and Gracie gathered in the doorway, watching and laughing at him.
Death Takes A Lover (DS Billings Victorian Mysteries) Page 5