The witch’s brown eyes slide sideways and fix on Anne. ‘You are right. Tom is innocent.’
‘But they have him locked up! They have the doctor’s word.’
‘They have the doctor’s suspicions. It has not been proven. The body will be examined, tested for poison. There will be no proof. He will be released.’
Perhaps. Anne does not know how such things work – proof and evidence and post-mortems – but she must believe the witch. The alternative is too dreadful.
She rests her head against the tree trunk, sighs. How has everything gone so horribly wrong? She wishes she could stay like this, breathing in the cold air, letting it clear away the worry and fear, until all of this is over and Tom is back at Floreat.
‘How is Lizzie?’
‘Worse than we thought.’
‘She shows the same symptoms as Mary?’
Anne nods. ‘She’s worse than ever today. I think it might be the shock of Mary that has done it.’
‘It would be best if Lizzie had a swift death, don’t you agree? It would be best to bring her suffering to an end sooner rather than later. Kinder.’
Anne doesn’t know if death is ever kinder. ‘Perhaps.’
‘And with Tom out of the way …’
Anne regards the witch. The woman is staring at her, eagerly, but Anne can’t make sense of anything at the moment. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘If she dies while Tom is locked up, surely that will prove his innocence?’
‘How?’
The witch’s jaw tenses. ‘Mary and Lizzie have both suffered similarly. The bobbies think Tom poisoned Mary, but if Lizzie dies too, they will know he did not poison his sister, because he would not have had the opportunity. And what would be the point? Brothers do not murder sisters. If Lizzie dies of gastric fever while Tom is away, they will know that Mary died of the fever also.’
Anne lets the concept float in her mind. ‘I suppose.’
‘For goodness sake, girl! Of course, I am right.’
‘So?’
‘You want to help Tom?’
‘Yes, I love him.’
The witch leaps before her, grabs her shoulders, and shakes her. ‘Do not say that. Don’t you see that saying such stupid things will only make things worse?’
‘How?’
‘Christ! Never mind. Listen to me. If you want to help Tom, you must make sure that Lizzie does not wake in the morning.’
‘You want me to kill her?’
‘No.’ She takes Anne’s hands gently. ‘She is already dead, my dear. You are just ending her suffering. And saving Tom.’
An amber leaf flutters from the sky and lands into a pile of other dead leaves at Anne’s feet. She watches it for a moment, thinking. ‘How?’
‘Take the covers from her. Extinguish the fire. Open the windows. Give her no water. Tell everyone she is resting. If she is as ill as you say, she will not last long.’
Anne imagines it, and her flesh crawls. ‘It is too cruel.’
‘You have been cruel to her before.’
Anne flushes. ‘This is too much. I can’t.’
‘Then, Tom will hang.’
Anne sobs into her handkerchief. She will not let them kill him.
‘What if the police find me?’
‘Why would they? No one wants to go into a sick room. Just do as I say, be quick about it, and if they do go into her room, deny you were ever there. Do you understand?’
Anne nods.
‘Remember, Anne, no one can know that you and I have been meeting. It will be bad for you if they find out. Now go, before you are missed.’
Anne staggers to her feet and stumbles through the woodland. She will do as she is told, for what would be the point of life without Tom?
Tom is in what constitutes a cell, out here in the country, and through the bars next to him is a drunk man, his face bloodied, his hands cut. Tom has not seen a drunkard for a long time. The old, familiar sight is comforting.
The weather outside rages. The station door keeps blowing open with each gust of wind, making Tom think that the Inspector has finally returned. Yet, it is not until many hours later, with Tom’s backside stinging from the hard chair that Mr Edwards saunters into the station. His plain clothes are worn at the hems and elbows. It is as if he has a layer of dust upon him that he cannot shake off, yet he removes his bowler to reveal shiny brown hair slicked back carefully. He must be married, after all.
‘Mr Oliver. Comfortable?’
‘Not really, but I can’t say I care much for myself while my sister lies ill at home and my wife has just died.’
‘Yes, your wife’s death.’ Edwards unlocks the bars, brings a spare chair with him and sits opposite Tom. ‘That is why you are here.’
‘I thought as much.’
Inspector Edwards leans back, his hands linked before his soft belly. ‘I will get to the point, Mr Oliver. It has come to our attention that you may have had some kind of involvement with your wife’s death.’
‘Come to your attention? How?’ Tom is not shackled; they knew they would have no trouble from him. He folds his arms across his chest. ‘Are you saying that Mary was murdered? She died of gastric fever.’
‘We’ll know once the coroner has done his job.’
An image of Mary, peculiarly thin, her naked body laid flat on a cold table, her bones protruding out from her skin as men ogle her, invades his mind. He wonders if she has been cleaned before the examination, or if she still smells? He wonders when they take their knives and cut through her chest if her tits will perk up at their touch.
‘How was your marriage?’
‘Good.’
‘We have heard that Mary could be difficult at times.’
‘Isn’t every woman?’
Inspector Edwards laughs.
‘Mary was high spirited. She could have moods. It must have also come to your attention that she was going to be put into an asylum? She required some rest.’
Mr Edwards nods.
‘Mary was very ill. She could be hard to live with before Thomas was born, but afterwards, she worsened. She had notions that the child was going to kill her.’
‘And did that concern you?’
‘Of course, it concerned me, he is my son. We thought, at one point that she was recovering. She grew fond of the child and spent more time with him. She said how much she loved him.’
‘What changed?’
Tom shrugs. The drunk next door snorts, turns over so he lies flat on his back, and returns to sleep.
‘I don’t know,’ Tom says, and it is no lie. The workings of Mary’s mind were always a mystery. Really, he didn’t have to do much at all to turn her mad.
‘One day she was fine with him, the next she didn’t want to see him again. She said he was trying to kill her, that he was making her ill.’
Edwards nods, waits a moment. Tom cannot read him – perhaps Tom is losing his touch? The thought unsettles him.
‘I believe you counselled Doctor Jameson many times throughout your marriage?’
‘I sought his professional advice. He had been Mary’s doctor all her life. I thought he might provide a solution.’
‘Solution?’
‘She needed more help than I could give. Her tempers were violent. She often hit the staff, her lady’s maid in particular.’
‘I believe she attacked you also?’
‘She tried. She could be strong when she wanted to be, but I managed to keep her at a distance when she became like that. I was never frightened of her if that is what you were wondering.’
Inspector Edwards rubs his hand over his shadowed chin. ‘Doctor Jameson believes you were trying to get rid of your wife, sir.’
‘We did not agree, the doctor and I. I was not trying to get rid of her, I was trying to help her. I didn’t feel that I was ... capable of taking care of her.’
‘Were you having an affair with Anne Witmore?’
Silence. The change in direction comes as
a shock. The two men stare at each other.
So, Tom thinks, this is what this is all about.
‘No.’
‘Doctor Jameson informs me that when he recently examined your wife, she said that she saw ...’ he rummages in his pocket and retrieves a small, scruffy notepad. The accusation is left hanging as he tries to find where he has written it down. ‘Him and her. At night. Together. Red. Red. Red. The doctor says that you heard her saying this when you came to collect him.’
Tom takes a moment. ‘And this is supposed to mean I was sleeping with Anne?’
‘Jameson says Mrs Oliver was very distressed. It was clear to him that red meant the colour of Anne’s hair.’
‘Yes, the doctor is fond of thinking he always knows everything. That is why I brought in Doctor Kershaw, for a second opinion on Mary. It seems I had left it too late, I should have called for Kershaw sooner.’
‘Are you doubting Doctor Jameson’s abilities as a doctor?’
‘I believe he took a dislike to me, and now he is trying to accuse me of being unfaithful to my wife. I hasten to remind you, Inspector, that my wife was suffering from terrible delusions. I am sure you know that she thought Kershaw and Jameson were angels sent by God to kill my son.’
Mr Edwards is quiet.
‘Or did Doctor Jameson fail to mention this to you?’
The silence is confirmation enough.
‘I admit, I think perhaps that Anne – Miss Witmore – may have certain ... feelings for me.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘I’m sure you know when a woman is admiring of you, Inspector. You can just tell, can’t you?’
Edwards does not falter at Tom’s charm. Tom checks himself – the inspector is used to dealing with liars, after all. He must be cleverer than that. He continues earnestly:
‘I believe it is common for young maids to develop feelings for their masters. No one takes them seriously. Only last week, I promoted my hall boy to footman. He has a liking for the girl, you see, and I wished to improve his chances of wooing her.
‘I employed Anne because she was recommended to me by my manservant and her mother had worked for the Buchanan’s when Victoria was alive. In truth, I felt rather sorry for the girl. And once Mary began beating her, I thought it would be damned shameful to fire her for no fault of her own.’
Mr Edwards nods but it is unclear whether he is satisfied with Tom’s explanation. With some difficulty, for his jacket appears a little too tight, he pushes his notepad back into his pocket.
‘Look, Inspector, if I might set your mind at ease so that I may be free to bury my wife in peace, Mary was due to be hospitalised by today at the latest. If, as Jameson believes, my sole aim was to get rid of my wife, she was already leaving. To be crass, I had no need to kill her.’
Mr Edwards swallows, nods, then rises.
‘May I go now? I must get back to Liz. She has a fever also.’
‘Not just yet, sir. We must ask for your patience until the cause of death is ascertained.’
Chapter 16
Anne scampers into the house. She does not stop to remove her cloak or change her boots. She makes sure her steps are light in the servant’s passage and on the staircase.
She can hear them all about her. They are like her mice, those policemen, scurrying and scratching. She does not like them one bit.
She slides through the secret doorway onto the main landing. Little Tom’s room is quiet. Her heart throbs for the child, whose world is in peril right now. She is doing this for him, as well.
She creeps over the carpet. Both Mary and Tom’s chamber doors are ajar, and she can hear the opening and closing of drawers, the shifting of bedsheets, heavy footsteps over the floorboards.
She is getting closer to Liz’s door now, and she prays that it is closed.
It is. The witch was right; the police would never risk a fever, even to find a killer.
She muffles the handle with her cloak and slips inside. The room is sweaty, and urine and faeces lie in the slop bowl under the bed. The fire burns high, the curtains are drawn. Under the tight covers, Liz sleeps deeply. Her lips are rosy. Her pale lashes are thick and long against her porcelain cheeks. Her white-blonde hair is like spun silver upon the pillow. Even in sickness, she is beautiful.
Anne thinks of what lies beneath the sheets. She wishes she could wake Liz and ask about those scars, about why Liz has such moments of panic, about why Liz holds her stomach at times as if it has a knife stuck into it. She wishes she could ask Liz, but she cannot. If Liz were to open her eyes, Anne could never do what she is about to do. So, she lets Liz sleep.
The witch’s words chant in Anne’s mind. She whispers them under her breath as she quietly pulls the curtains back, pushes the windows wide, and douses the fire with the jug of water from the bedside table. She peels back Liz’s bed covers. The gale from the open window catches on Liz’s thin cotton nightgown and makes it quiver. Liz shivers, her teeth gently rattle. A soft moan escapes from her lips, but it is too quiet for anyone outside the chamber to hear.
Anne takes Liz’s frigid hand. It is as light as a sparrow and just as bony. She remembers how things were when she first arrived. She recalls Liz saying she wished for them to be friends. She remembers how she used to relish the thought of spending idle afternoons with her favourite mistress.
In that moment, she wishes everything could go back to how it used to be. But that is impossible.
‘I’m doing this for Tom and the baby. You’ll understand.’ A teardrop hits Liz’s knuckle, and Anne quickly wipes it away. ‘I’m sorry. For everything.’ She places the hand back onto the bed. ‘Goodbye, Miss Oliver.’
Anne is sneaking across the landing when she hears a door open.
‘Excuse me!’
Anne turns, catching a glimpse of her red face in one of the mirrors as she does so. ‘Yes, sir?’
The policeman is young, perhaps mid-twenties, and walks towards her with his nose in the air. ‘I’ve been looking for the key to the desk in the study. I thought it might be in Mr Oliver’s room, but I cannot find it. Do you have any idea where it might be?’
‘No, sir. Sorry, sir.’ Anne exhales the breath she has been holding as she turns to walk away.
‘Just a moment. It’s Miss Witmore, isn’t it? Is everything all right?’ He stands in front of her, blocking her exit through the concealed doorway.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You seem upset.’
‘Just about Mrs Oliver, sir.’
The boy looks down at her over his pig nose. ‘What are you doing up here?’
‘I ...’ Anne clears her throat. ‘I was going to clean Mrs Oliver’s room, but I see that someone is in there.’
‘You were going to clean the room in your cloak?’
Anne stares at herself. There is mud on her skirts and boots, and small twigs and leaves cling to her outdoor clothes.
She tries to smile. ‘My head is all a muddle, today, sir. Forgive me. I will go and change.’
‘You are filthy, Miss Witmore. Where have you been?’
‘Nowhere.’
‘You have been in the house all morning?’
‘Yes.’
He sighs, and his sour breath blows against her face. ‘You were perfectly well put together when Inspector Edwards spoke to you. I will ask you again. Where have you been?’
Will the words come out of her mouth? They seem lodged in her throat, suffocating her. ‘I just went for a walk.’
‘In this weather?’
‘I needed some air.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘I don’t know. Just around the estate.’
He quietens for a moment, which only makes his stare more intense. She feels like a bug under a magnifying glass. ‘May I go now?’
‘Where did you walk, Miss Witmore?’
Anne sighs, almost sobbing. ‘Around the estate.’
‘Why?’
‘Fresh air!’ The answer feels fe
eble even to her own ears.
‘Pickman?’ he calls, and an even younger uniformed policeman pokes his head out from Mary’s room. ‘Get your coat.’ He turns back to Anne. ‘There is something you are not telling me, Miss Witmore. Don’t go anywhere.’
The minutes drag into hours. Every so often, the drunkard rallies, gets to his feet, drops down again, utters some form of abuse at no one in particular, and then falls asleep.
Tom stands. His muscles in his backside and legs are cramping. He paces his cell, rolling his head left to right, listening to his bones crack. He pulls on the bars to see if they might bend for him, when the station door opens and he drops his hands.
Inspector Edwards enters.
‘May I go now?’
‘Not just yet, sir.’
‘Do you know what killed my wife?’
‘We shall soon.’
Tom grabs at the bars, and his knuckles whiten. ‘My sister is ill. I do not think you realise how ill she is.’
‘Would you like me to call a doctor for you?’
‘I would like,’ he says between his teeth before steadying himself, ‘to go home.’
The door to the station blows open. There is a moment of confusion as the door hits the wall, and the wind blows in a small tornado of leaves. Then, she appears.
It is all he can do to keep standing. He anchors himself to the iron bars for support.
She is between the arms of two uniformed boys, who do not seem strong enough to hold her writhing body for much longer.
‘Sir,’ one of them begins. ‘We found her in the woods.’
‘Could this be the woman your staff were telling us about?’ The inspector says. ‘The woman who scared your sister?’
Tom does not know if he can speak while she stands there, looking at him. ‘Perhaps.’ His voice is nothing more than a breath. ‘I don’t know. I never saw her.’
Mr Edwards sniffs. ‘Take her next door. I shall be with you shortly.’
‘Sir,’ one of the constables holds out his hand, and the Inspector takes what dangles from it. ‘Found this near her.’
Mr Edwards inspects a square piece of brown cotton. The young lad points at something in the corner of it, before Mr Edwards nods and slips it into his pocket, then follows the three of them out.
Convenient Women Collection Page 36