It is an agonisingly long time before anyone returns. The day has drifted into night. Tom’s stomach growls, and his throat cracks with thirst.
Finally, Inspector Edwards storms back into the station with a loop of keys in his hands. He opens the drunkard’s cell, picks him up by the collar and drags him outside where he hurls him on the floor and shouts at him to think on his actions. He shuts the door on the startled man and comes to Tom, locking the cell behind him.
‘Do you know that woman?’
‘No. There is talk she is a witch. She came to the house once and scared my sister.’
‘Does your sister know her?’
‘She didn’t say.’
Mr Edwards leans on his knees and rubs his eyes.
‘Why did she come here?’ Tom says.
‘She says she is here to help you. Why would she say that, do you think?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘She says she is your mother.’
It takes a moment before Tom can bark out his laughter. ‘The woman is insane.’
‘She’s been living in the woods, we think, inside a dead tree. We think she might have a connection to the house. She knows a lot about you and about what happens at Floreat. She knows about your child.’
‘Is she threatening us?’
‘Is that woman your mother, Mr Oliver? Tell me the truth now.’
Tom wipes the back of his neck and rubs the moisture from it onto his trousers. ‘My mother died before I ever knew her. We – Liz and I – were raised by our grandparents, Reverend and Mrs Oliver. I have my birth certificate at home somewhere, if you would like to see it?’
Inspector Edwards shakes his head.
‘Bring her in,’ Tom says.
‘Excuse me?’
‘I should like to see her.’
‘Why?’
‘I think I have the right, do I not, after all the trouble she has caused us?’
Reluctantly, Mr Edwards goes next door. When he returns, the witch is on his arm, handcuffed but calmer than before. He puts her into the cell where the drunkard had been.
‘Tom.’ The black hole of her mouth widens into a terrible smile. There are tears in her dark eyes.
‘I do not know you.’ He hopes his voice is cold, but the feeling of strangulation is so strong that his words are nothing more than a whisper.
‘She says her name is Charlotte Carter. She says your name is Thomas Jacob Carter.’
‘She is lying. My name is Thomas Oliver. I have the papers.’
‘Tom.’ She comes to the bars, and Tom edges as far away from her as he can.
‘My mother is dead. She has been dead for many years.’
‘Tom, please!’
‘Why would a mother try to hurt the ones she is supposed to love, Mr Edwards? Why would a mother want to see her child unhappy? Why would a mother spy on her own flesh and blood? It makes no sense.’
‘Tom, I love you.’
Tom flinches. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector. This woman is clearly insane.’
‘You fool!’ She screams.
Inspector Edwards bangs the bars, scaring her away. ‘That’s enough of that.’
‘She has mistaken me for someone else, it would seem.’
The door opens, and the young constable enters. ‘Telegram for you, sir.’
Inspector Edwards takes the note. Tom waits for him to say something as his eyes scan the paper, but he remains silent.
‘What is it?’
‘Arsenic.’
Tom is confused. ‘What is arsenic?’
‘Your wife. She died from arsenic poisoning.’
Tom’s mouth drops.
‘Mary was murdered, Mr Oliver.’
The cold from the open door bites at Tom’s bare neck. Their eyes bore into him.
‘I did not poison her, Inspector, I swear to you. I told you I had no need.’
‘Anne.’ The words echoes in the silence.
They turn to the lunatic in the next cell.
‘It is Anne Witmore,’ she says, stealing closer to the bars. ‘I have been meeting with her in the woods. She is my spy. She has told me how much she hated Mary. She has often wished her dead in my presence. It is Anne, sir, not Tom.’
More silence. Tom cannot comprehend. How could Mary have been poisoned? How could Anne do such a thing? It is all lies, it must be lies! It was a fever, so Kershaw said, nothing but a fever … Then, his stomach plunges.
‘Liz.’
When nobody responds, he leaps to his feet and shakes the bars. ‘Let me out! Don’t you see?’ Tom grabs Inspector Edwards’ jacket. ‘Liz has been poisoned, can’t you see, you fool? She is in danger! She is at Floreat with Anne. Anne is trying to kill her. I must get to her – I must save her. Let me out! She will die if I do not save her. Let me out now!’
Mr Edwards rushes the key into the lock. ‘Put him in cuffs.’
Tom yanks his hands free. ‘I am coming with you.’
‘You will come with us, but you will be in cuffs until we can prove your innocence.’
Tom cannot risk any delay. He must get to Liz. The cuffs tighten around his wrists, and the men march for the door.
‘Leave her, Tom!’
He does not look back at the woman in the cell.
‘Tom, please! I love you.’
The station door slams shut as they climb into the cart and begin the grinding journey over the black heathland towards Floreat.
Floreat is rudely awakened as they storm into the house.
Tom hears nothing, sees nothing, feels nothing, as he takes the stairs three at a time, his cuffed hands swinging from side to side, his breath coming hard into his tight lungs. He is through Liz’s bedroom door before the others have reached the landing.
The room is icy and dark. Liz’s bed stinks from the vomit on the pillow and the diarrhoea on the sheet. She looks as if she has been caught in a downpour; her skin is as blanched as chalk and covered in sweat. Her face is contorted in agony as she shudders in nothing but her nightgown.
‘Help me!’
He tries to talk to her, to get her to recognise him, as the others come into the room, gasping at the sight of her. The inspector pulls on the lever to summon help. All is panic and confusion as Liz is lifted between two constables and carried through the house. Inspector Edwards orders Cate to go with Liz to the hospital. Tom tries to follow as Liz is wrapped in heavy blankets and loaded onto the cart.
‘You will stay here.’ Mr Edwards rips him off the cart and shoves him to the floor.
‘Liz!’ The horse is whipped into a gallop. ‘Liz, I love you! I’ll be with you soon.’
They will not make it in time, Tom thinks. She shall die in that filthy cart beside strangers. He lumbers to his feet and charges after the wagon. He will make it. He will be by her side; no one will stop him anymore. But then something smacks his legs from under him, his head smashes on the ground, and the cart vanishes.
When he regains consciousness, he is lying upon one of the sofas in the library. All is calm, and for a moment he forgets that any of this has happened. He thinks that Mary and Liz are reading in the drawing room, that Little Thomas is asleep in his nursery, that he himself has only the worry of choosing whether to drink whiskey or brandy tonight.
But he cannot fool himself for long.
Out in the hallway, the staff stand before the inspector, heads bowed, hands folded before themselves. All of them are present; all except one.
Tom watches from the doorway as Mr Edwards interrogates them.
‘Where is she?’
The staff look sideways at each other.
‘Where is she?’
‘She said that Miss Oliver did not need her tonight, so she went,’ Clair whispers, too scared to meet the inspector’s glare.
‘When was that?’
‘I don’t know. About four, maybe?’
‘She was told to stay here. Where did she go?’
‘She didn’t say.’
‘W
here might she go? Think!’ Mr Edwards’ voice clatters in the quiet.
‘She has nowhere else to go but home,’ Chipman says.
The inspector nods as another constable, who Tom vaguely recalls from earlier today, dashes down the stairs with something in his hands.
‘Sir.’ He breaks through the semi-circle of people and comes before his superior. ‘I found these underneath her bed.’
The officer holds out two bottles. One is only a quarter filled with fine, white powder while the other is almost full of clear liquid.
‘She’s been laying it down for the mice. There’s a few dead under the floorboards. Accounts for the smell.’
‘Well done, Roberts. You shall stay here, continue searching. Look after Mr Oliver – he must stay inside. Ackley, come with me. And bring a lamp.’
‘What’s wrong with you? You can’t sit still,’ Gwen says as she spreads a thin layer of dripping onto a slice of bread.
Anne nibbles at the grainy meal. The cottage is quiet for a change; the boys are worn out from their long day’s work and have gone to their bed. Grace leans on the table, yawning. Da is smoking his pipe outside.
‘You’re white as a sheet.’
The dripping clings to the insides of her mouth. Her tongue runs over her gums, which feel coarse and tacky. She places the slice of bread back on the plate.
‘You need to eat something.’
‘I’m fine, Ma.’
Gwen leans across the knobbly table and strokes Anne’s head. The action brings back a memory of the time when Gwen was recovering from her surgery. She had been sitting in the exact same place in front of the fire, propped up against the bare wall, a blanket wrapped around her leg, looking so small and frail and not at all like the mother Anne knew.
Anne had begun to cry, out of fear, out of worry, out of anger, out of uncertainty, and Gwen had leaned over, wincing from the pain of the movement, and had run her soft, warm hand over Anne’s hair. It had been all that Anne had needed to stop her tears. This time, it brings tears to the fore.
‘Oh, Ma!’ She wishes she had better resolve, but she can’t stop herself now.
Gwen sends Grace to bed and calls Anne to her. Anne falls into her mother’s arms, her body wracked with sobs, her face buried deep into the nook of Gwen’s collar bone.
‘What’s wrong, love? Please just tell me.’
She can’t admit her sins to her mother. She can’t accept her feelings of passion, of jealousy, of envy. She can’t say what part she has played in the tragedies at Floreat.
Her father swings in through the back door. ‘Someone’s out there. I can hear them coming.’
Anne freezes. The warmth from her mother drains. She straightens.
They wait, all three of them, fixed in their places, barely breathing as they hear the cries of men coming closer. One voice is familiar. And then, just as she places it, Inspector Edwards barges through the front door and strides into the kitchen, the young constable with the pig-nose panting beside him.
‘Anne Witmore. We need to talk to you.’
The severity of his stare causes her to bolt. It is her father who stops her, and makes Anne return to her chair. Inspector Edwards takes the only other available seat, leaving the constable and Anne’s father to stand in the cramped space.
‘The maid said you left Miss Oliver at four o’clock today because she had no need of you. Is that right?’
Anne nods.
‘When we found her, she had no fire, no quilt, and the windows were open. Do you know anything about that?’
‘She was fine when I left her.’
Mr Edwards rubs his chin. ‘You were told to stay where you were.’
‘I ... I just thought ...’ What did she think? Nothing. Sheer panic had made her run to her mother, naively believing that no one would find her here.
‘You have arsenic in your room.’
The change of subject confuses her for a moment. ‘Yes. For the mice. I got it from Da.’
‘Where were you this morning?’
‘At Floreat.’
Her answer is met with a sigh. ‘Do you know a woman who goes by the name of Charlotte Carter?’
‘No, sir.’
‘She might not have told you her name. Mr Oliver called her the witch.’
Anne’s tongue almost slides down her throat.
‘She has very distinct features. She was burned. You would know her if you saw her.’
‘That was the woman you said you’d seen that time, way back. She’d scared Miss Oliver,’ Gwen says, squeezing Anne’s hand to encourage her to talk. ‘But, she hasn’t been seen for months. I thought she’d gone?’
‘She’s been living in the woods. We found her this afternoon. She’s in the station now.’
Anne’s saliva runs thinly round her mouth. She will be sick.
‘She’s been spying on the house. At least, she has had a spy in the house, perhaps acting on her behalf. We don’t know yet. When Ackley, here, spoke to you before, Anne, your dress was muddy. You told him that you’d been walking around the estate, but you couldn’t tell him where exactly. Did you go to the woods?’
Silence.
‘It would be much easier if you would talk to me, Anne.’ Inspector Edwards waits, but still, Anne says nothing. He takes something from his pocket.
‘That’s yours, Anne,’ Gwen says. ‘That’s your hanky. Where ...?’
‘In the woods, Mrs Witmore. Close to Charlotte Carter.’
‘Anne?’
Anne cannot look at her mother. Her skirt is growing damp from her tears that drip upon it.
‘We discovered these in your room as well.’ The Inspector displays the two bottles. ‘What are they?’
Anne swallows, curses herself for not finding a better hiding place. ‘Arsenic. For the mice.’
‘And this?’ He holds up the clear liquid.
She tries to swallow again, but there’s nothing there but her fat, greasy tongue.
‘Is this from your father as well?’
‘No,’ her father says when she does not respond.
‘I will ask you again, Miss Witmore. What is in this bottle?’
‘It’s just a potion!’ she screams for she cannot bear the questions any longer. ‘It’s just a silly potion.’
‘What kind of potion?’
Anne is sure her skin must be scarlet. ‘A love potion.’
‘For who?’
She can look nowhere but the floor as she answers. ‘Mr Oliver.’ She recoils as she hears the sharp intake of her mother’s breath.
‘Where did you get it from?’
She can’t answer that. She glances at her father, who is as rigid as the fire pokers which he stands beside. ‘Da?’ Her father does not look at her.
‘Where did you get it from, Anne?’ Mr Edwards says.
What is the point in pretending anymore? Everything has gone wrong. She has nothing left to lose. ‘The witch.’
‘So, you do know her. How?’
‘She found me one night when I was walking back to Floreat.’
‘What did she want from you?’
‘Information. About what happened in the house.’
‘Why?’
Anne shrugs.
‘You did not ask?’
‘Of course, I asked! But she ... She scared me. She said she would do things if I did not do what she wanted. She is dangerous!’
Mr Edwards sighs, hands the bottle to Ackley, who sniffs the contents then puts the bottle to his lips and takes a sip. ‘Gin.’
The shock dries her tears. ‘What?’ She thinks about all the effort she has gone to in order to get it, to slip it into Tom’s drinks. And it was working! Tom was falling in love with her.
‘Mrs Oliver has died from arsenic poisoning. Miss Oliver is also suffering. She has been taken to Exeter hospital.’
‘It was gastric fever.’
‘No, Anne. It was murder.’
It can’t be. That was just a rumour, a lie m
ade by the doctor so Tom would hang. Tom! She thinks of him locked away, terrified. He cannot die. The thought is unbearable.
‘Miss Carter – the witch – says you poisoned them.’
The breath is knocked from her lungs as his words echo in her mind.
‘We understand you had a difficult relationship with Mrs Oliver. And you are in love with her husband. Will Chipman told us you rejected him because you hoped to marry Mr Oliver one day. How did you think you could marry Mr Oliver when he already had a wife?’
The question lingers in the air.
Suddenly, her father slams his fist into the fire-irons, and they crash on the stone floor. ‘This is all his fault! It is him you should be questioning, not Anne. She is only young and foolish. It is him who is in the wrong here. I have seen how he is with women. He is a snake!’
Mr Edwards holds up his hands to stop the tirade.
‘Exactly what I thought, Mr Witmore, which is why I have had him in the cells all day. But I have a problem now. Miss Oliver has also been poisoned. By all accounts, Mr Oliver loves her dearly. So, tell me why he would poison his own sister?’
‘I didn’t kill Mary,’ Anne whispers. It is all she can manage to choke out.
‘You liked Miss Oliver at first, didn’t you, Anne? I believe she gave you gifts, nice dresses, that sort of thing. What happened? Will tells me you grew distant from her. You were not as kind about her as you once were. Did she snub you? Was it jealousy? Did she discover your feelings for her brother? Did she anger you?’
‘I did not poison Miss Oliver!’
‘And then there’s the baby. You are very fond of the baby, aren’t you? Did you think you might be a mother to it once Mary had gone?’
‘No! Please, Ma, Da, I did not! I did not kill Mrs Oliver! You must believe me!’
Mr Edwards sighs. ‘The problem is, Anne, you have done nothing but lie to us all day.’
Chapter 17
April 1870
The coffin’s polished lid shimmers in the last few rays of sunlight before it descends into the shadows. As it goes, a breath escapes from the congregation, and it is like the ocean sighing.
Convenient Women Collection Page 37