Agnes Protheroe, a stout, white-haired old lady who wore horn spectacles on the end of her nose, sat in a chair drawn up beside the chapel door of the old almshouses at Overton Hollow. Some disregarded knitting lay on her ample lap. She had welcomed Jackson and Bottomley, explaining that in these days she had precious few visitors.
‘Mrs Sourpuss?’
‘Well, Mr Jackson, that what I called her. Mrs Hector Paget, her real name was. She was a handsome woman, I’ll give her that, but her heart was as cold as a stone. He was entirely under her thumb, and seemed devoted to her in his way. He was civil enough, but he was one of those vague, cringing kind of men that you’d never trust. They didn’t stay for long after that little girl who stayed with them went off to school.
‘They left Mayfield without a word to anyone, leaving Rose Potter as caretaker. This was in the November of 1864. Just before Christmas, Rose got a letter from them telling her to close the place up, as her services were no longer required. They enclosed a money order for four pounds, in lieu of notice.’
Old Mrs Protheroe laughed.
‘It was typical of those two skinflints that they made it four pounds. Why not five? Anyway, they went, and good riddance. After that, no one came to live in Mayfield Court, and the place went from rack to ruin.’
‘You’ve a very good memory of those days, missus,’ said Herbert Bottomley. He looked kindly at the old lady. She was dropsical, and the awkward angle of her neck told of arthritis, but she seemed immensely cheerful. There was nothing of the sourpuss about Mrs Protheroe. ‘Did you live in Mayfield village in those days?’
‘I did, Mr Bottomley. I was the midwife, and over the years I brought over forty children into the world. I got on very well with Rose Potter, because – well, never mind about that. She was a class above me, of course, having been a schoolteacher in one of the National Schools, but we were good friends.’
‘You mentioned the little girl who stayed in the house for a night,’ said Jackson. ‘Her name was Helen, Helen Paget.’
‘Yes, that’s right. Miss Helen. No one ever saw her, to my knowledge, except the Pagets and Rose herself. She said she was a dear little girl of ten or eleven, very well mannered, and nicely spoken. A young lady, you know. She only stayed a short while, and then a carriage came to take her away to a school for young ladies. I often wonder how she got on in later life. She’ll be grown up now, and married, with children of her own, I’ve no doubt.’
‘Do you know where I can find Rose Potter?’ asked Jackson. ‘I want to have a talk to her about her time at Mayfield Court.’
Mrs Protheroe gave both men a sudden, shrewd glance.
‘You think that child’s dead, don’t you?’ she said. ‘You think the Pagets made away with her. There were always rumours about that, and about ghosts and suchlike, and we’ve heard tell that a little skeleton’s been unearthed at Mayfield. But Rose will tell you differently. A carriage came in the night, and took the little one away to school. Do you know the little town of Bishop’s Sutton, a mile or two beyond Haseley Green? Well, you’ll find Rose Potter there. She’s a good age, now, like me, but she’s still the postmistress there. Find the post office, and you’ll find Rose.’
On the afternoon of the next day, Jackson and Bottomley went in a hired trap to Haseley Green. This place was very much on their patch, a pleasant village just a few miles out of Warwick. A winding secondary road took them to the village of Bishop’s Sutton. The ivy-covered remains of an old priory stood in a field behind the church, from the gates of which the village street made a gentle descent to a tributary of the River Best. The post office, housed in a whitewashed cottage, was also an oil shop; above a line of tapped drums stood a shelf displaying an array of lamps and lanterns for sale.
Rose Potter was a lady in her early seventies, grey-haired, and comfortably stout. She had shrewd but humorous eyes, and an unlined face, which made her look younger than her years. She seemed very pleased to meet the two detectives, and quickly handed over control of the post office counter to a young girl, her trainee assistant. She led them into a cosy little room behind the shop, and motioned to them to sit down in two chairs beside the unlit grate.
‘Well, well,’ she said, ‘fancy you wanting to know about young Miss Helen! It’s a lifetime ago since I first saw her, and that wasn’t for long. Why do you want to know about Helen after all these years?’
‘A few days ago, Miss Potter,’ said Jackson, ‘the skeleton of a little girl was unearthed in the rear garden of Mayfield Court. We were referred to you as someone who remembered the child Helen Paget, and what happened to her when she stayed in the house—’
‘A skeleton! Well, you do surprise me,’ said Miss Potter. Jackson was puzzled by her response. She showed natural curiosity, but did not seem to link the fact of the skeleton with the fate of little Helen.
‘Let me tell you everything that happened,’ Rose continued. ‘I have a very good memory, and the events of that day have stayed with me ever since. It was the year 1864, and our little night visitor came to us on the 28 October.
‘I was waiting to receive this little girl, and was standing in one of the upstairs rooms of Mayfield Court, with the curtains drawn back, peering out through the driving rain. It was half past ten at night, and as black as pitch, but I could see along the drive, to where a lantern, suspended on its bracket on the south wall of the lodge, threw its light on to the lodge gates.
‘After a few minutes, a closed carriage stopped at the lodge, and I saw the driver, impatient and soaked to the skin, clamber down from the box, and bang on the iron scroll-work of the gates with the butt of his whip. Poor man, he’d had enough of the elements for one night!
‘Well, John Lewis, the lodge keeper, came out, hauled the tall iron gates open, and then coaxed the two black horses over the cattle-grid and so into the grounds. As the carriage passed under the oil lamp I caught a glimpse of a small, round, pale face, half hidden by the hood of a travelling-cloak, peering out of the carriage window. Poor little soul! She looked about ten or so, pretty enough, but with a frozen, expressionless look, in the way of children who are either frightened or overawed. Can you understand what I mean? That was my first sight of Miss Helen, and I’ve never forgotten it.’
‘You knew that the child was coming? She didn’t just arrive unannounced?’
‘Well, yes, Mr Jackson, of course I knew she was coming. The master had come to see me in my sitting room early on the previous day, to tell me all about it. “Mrs Potter”, he said – he was always correct in that way, calling me “Mrs” because I was the housekeeper, even though I wasn’t married – “Mrs Potter, my late cousin’s daughter, Miss Helen, will be arriving here some time tomorrow evening. See that there’s someone on the gates, will you?” Quite pleased, he was, I thought.’
‘Pleased?’
‘Yes. Maybe he liked the idea of having a child about the place. After all, there’d never been children there, and he was a kindly enough man when left to himself.’
Herbert Bottomley threw her a shrewd glance.
‘But for most of the time he wasn’t “left to himself”? I expect his good wife had a lot of influence over him.’
‘Oh, yes, she did. Miss Helen wouldn’t have got any joy from her, that’s for sure. She was as cold as ice, and with a will of iron. She’d throw him the occasional word of comfort like throwing scraps to a dog, and he’d be happy for the rest of the day. Mr Hector Paget was too weak-willed to withstand her. As long as he had his laudanum, he’d be content to do whatever she suggested. Still, it wasn’t any of my business.’
‘He took laudanum?’
‘Yes, Mr Jackson, he did. I’ve never had any truck with doctor’s bottles and cure-alls from the chemist, but he needed such stuff to give him courage, and to make him forget what a pathetic creature he was. So he took laudanum. It’s like opium, and he became a slave to it. Half the time, he walked around that house in a kind of waking dream.’
‘And what happ
ened when Miss Helen came into the house?’
‘Well, I received her myself in the hall, and took her through to the kitchen. I told the man to leave the little girl’s bit of luggage beneath the stairs, as I’d carry it upstairs myself, later. Cook had long gone by then, but there was a cheerful fire burning, and I gave her a nice warm supper. She didn’t say much – no more than yes and no, but I could see that she appreciated being looked after.
‘When she was finished, I picked up her valise, and went upstairs with her. I’d done what I could to furnish one of the first-floor rooms for her, but it was a gloomy, ill-furnished place. I told her to wash her face in a bowl of warm water that I brought up, and then I combed her hair, and made her all tidy. It was time for me to take her down to the drawing room, to meet the master and mistress.
‘Well, there they were, waiting for her. He was stooping, and nervous, with a fixed smile on his face. He looked done in, if you’ll pardon the expression – exhausted. She was as majestic as ever – oh! She was a frightening woman, very handsome, and very domineering. They shook hands with the child. I expect his was limp and warm; hers would have been as cold and as hard as steel. They both spoke briefly to her, and informed her that she was to be sent to school somewhere across the county. She was too overawed to make any reply, and I took her up to her dreary bedroom. I helped her to unpack, and asked her whether she would like a warming-pan for the bed. She shook her head, but for all that I expect she would have liked it. I could see that she was very tired, and I stayed with her until she went to sleep.
‘As I was making my way downstairs, I heard them talking to each other in the drawing room. The door was partly open, and I stood in the passage, trying to make out what they were saying.’
Rose’s round face suddenly broke into a smile. ‘Yes, I was listening at the door, and no doubt it was very remiss of me, but there it is. And the fragments I heard were so peculiar that I sat down in the kitchen and wrote them down on a piece of paper.’
Rose Potter opened a drawer in a bureau, and after some rummaging, produced a folded piece of greaseproof paper. Holding it up close to her eyes, she read its contents aloud to the two detectives.
‘“I tell, you, Hector”, (she said) “the subject is closed. We agreed that there was no other way. All that is needed tonight is that you give your consent. You may leave the execution of the matter to me”. I couldn’t catch all they said after that, but then he started to speak, and for once his tone was strong and firm.
‘“I’d give it until next August, Arabella”, (he said), “no earlier than that, and certainly no later. It would be a good idea if a local man did it. That way, he could let others know in the normal way of things.”
‘“So by next August—”’
‘“By next August, I can assure you”, (he said), “the thing will be complete. Remember that I managed the other affair without unnecessary scruple, just as I can leave you to manage this business without my assistance. This is what I think we should inscribe.
‘“There are three or four other names there, so underneath we can have something like this: Also Gabriel Forshaw, beloved son of the above Henry, perished of a fever at Bonny, in Nigeria, 7 August, 1865, aged 24 years, and buried there. What do you think?”
‘And that was all, Mr Jackson,’ said Rose. ‘They were getting uncomfortably near the door, and I quickly retreated to the kitchen, where I wrote down what parts I could remember. Here, you can take this paper with you, if you like. And that very night, while I was still asleep, little Helen was taken away. A carriage had called for her, they said, and carried her off to that school I mentioned. I was astonished, Mr Jackson, when I was told. I went into the bedroom, and the little girl’s bed was still warm. As for Mr and Mrs Paget, I suppose they’re long dead. I left their service soon afterwards, and came out here to Bishop’s Sutton.’
‘You say that the child was removed from the house by coach while you were asleep, Miss Potter,’ said Jackson, as he and Bottomley prepared to leave. ‘Are you quite certain that she left Mayfield Court? I told you that we have found the skeleton of a child—’
‘Oh, but that couldn’t have been Miss Helen, Inspector,’ said Rose. ‘I met her, you know, many years later, and she told me all about the school, and how glad she’d been to get away from that gloomy house. She gave me a calling-card, with her address printed on it. It’s somewhere in this drawer – yes, there it is. You’d better take it. She looked very well and prosperous, I thought. She was married by then, she told me, apparently to a young accountant in Birmingham, and had a little baby of her own.’
4
Catherine’s Narrative: Death in the Afternoon
I am not a vain woman – at least, I don’t think I am – but when I have just put on a new dress or coat I survey myself in the cheval glass that stands to one side of the window in my dressing room. The grey dress, I thought, fitted very well, even though it had not come from Peter Robinson or Liberty.
An older neighbour of ours, Mrs Buckmaster, had taken me to visit Sophie Solomon, a seamstress who occupied a little shop near Spitalfields. Sophie was as adept as any fashionable modiste at tailoring dresses and suits that could be worn anywhere with confidence. The little matching hat was neat enough, and the mauve feathers were small and skilfully clipped. Michael, I felt, would approve.
How wonderful it was to be back in dear old London, and away from that dreary, ghost-ridden ruin at Mayfield! It was five days since we had hurriedly decamped at dusk on the eighth, and neither I, nor Uncle Max, would ever go back to that place again. Uncle and I both belonged to London: the great, smoky city seemed to sustain us, as though recognizing one of its own. Uncle Max seemed much better in himself, more even-tempered. As for me, I was beginning to put the events of our visit to Warwickshire aside. It had been an uncharacteristic interlude in our life, and was best now forgotten.
That afternoon – it was Monday, 13 August – Michael and I were going to a matinée at the Gaiety Theatre in the Strand. Mr George Edwardes had enlivened the place for the last two years with his musical comedies, and his plethora of young ladies in the chorus. Uncle Max had called it ‘all froth and nonsense’, but there had been a twinkle in his eye as he said it. He seemed more than satisfied that Michael and I had become friends.
Outside, in the railed garden in the middle of Saxony Square, people were walking about, enjoying the August sun. A few nannies were seated on one of the long benches, their perambulators forming a kind of defensive line in front of them as they chatted to each other. Would they be talking about their charges? Probably, but maybe they were discussing their young men, too.
Although I was willing myself to forget Mayfield and its dark secrets, I kept Sergeant Bottomley in my remembrance. After that day’s matinée I would tell Michael the whole story of what Mr Bottomley had described as ‘the bones of a child hidden away in the overgrown garden of a broken-down old manor house.’ Secrets of that kind, he’d said, were best shared with someone outside the family.
Uncle Max began to call up to me from the lower landing. I went out into the passage and looked down at him. He stood with his hand on the banister, gazing earnestly up at me, his face conveying some ill-concealed worry, his brow creased with an anxious frown.
‘Catherine,’ he said, ‘come down to the study for a moment. I want to speak to you before you go off to the theatre.’
Uncle Max’s study was on the ground floor, at the rear of the house, with a view of the old walled garden. It was a pleasant room, its walls lined with bookshelves, and in the window bay was a massive mahogany desk, at which my uncle conducted his business. I had once asked him what kind of work he did, and he had told me that he specialized in conveyancing, and the proving of title deeds to property.
Since his return from Mayfield he had remained closeted in this room, emerging only for meals. At night, when I went up to bed, I could see the line of light under the study door, showing that he was still up late, working.
‘Sit down, my dear,’ said Uncle Max, when we entered the study, ‘I shan’t detain you long, since Michael will be calling very soon. I— Do you think I have done well by you, Catherine? Have I been a good uncle to you? I know that I’m snappy and curmudgeonly at times, but there’s no harm intended. Everything I have done, I have done with your best interests at heart—’
‘Dear Uncle,’ I cried, rising in alarm from my chair, and taking his hand in mine, ‘why are you speaking to me like this? No girl could have had a better guardian. You know that I love you, and always have.’
‘Well, well,’ he replied, withdrawing my hand from his, and looking away shamefacedly for a moment. ‘Well, well, let us say no more about it. You see this desk? When I am – when I am gone, you will find a copy of my will in there, together with the name and address of my solicitor, who holds the original copy—No, Catherine, do not try to stop me. What is there to fear? At my age I must think of the inevitable.’
Uncle Max seemed to be controlling himself by a supreme effort of will. There was something gravely wrong with him today – perhaps it was connected with that pile of rotting papers that had so preoccupied him at Mayfield Court.
Ghosts of Mayfield Court Page 5