The Possession of November Jones

by Pat Herbert

  In the meantime, he would have to ensure that no one had any cause to go down to the cellar. As he was thinking this, he heard Agnes clattering past his door. It was only an hour after Rose had first appeared in his parlour, and only a half-hour after he had taken her body down to the cellar. He looked out of the door to see Agnes disappearing down the steps to that very place.

  “Agnes!” he called out to her. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m taking the milk churn down to the cellar to keep it cool, sir.”

  “What?” he screamed.

  “Yes sir,” said Agnes, frightened by her master’s raised voice and wild-eyed look. “It keeps the milk fresh, like. Mrs Gladwin always makes me take it down there when we’ve finished with it.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, give the milk to me, I’ll take it down there.”

  “I beg pardon, sir?”

  “I fear that the steps are not safe. I noticed them the other day. I think you shouldn’t attempt to climb down there for the time being. If the milk goes off, we’ll just buy some more. I’ll get the steps fixed in the meantime.”

  “Are you all right, sir?” Agnes asked with concern, handing him the milk churn.

  “I’m fine. I was frightened for your safety, that’s all.”

  Charles realised that his violent reaction had aroused the girl’s curiosity and feared that she would go snooping sooner or later. Where was the key to the blasted cellar? Oh yes, it was in the kitchen cupboard with all the others, he remembered. Better grab it quick. But how? Agnes was on her way back to the kitchen at that very moment.

  “Er, Agnes,” he called after her. “While you’re up here, would you mind going to the nursery and making sure the room is warm enough? Miranda should be back soon with the baby and we don’t want it to catch cold, do we?”

  “But, sir, I’ve just checked the fire in there and it’s blazing away like nobody’s business. It don’t need any more help from me – not yet, anyway.”

  “Be a good girl and do as you’re told, will you?” said Charles threateningly.

  She’d better watch it, he thought, as he made sure she was upstairs out of harm’s way. At the moment, there were only two bodies in the cellar, but that number could be increased by one more, if necessary.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Charles Moreland couldn’t believe his luck. He could hear the sound of a lumbering cart in the street, it was the sound he’d always associated with the coalmen. But they weren’t due till tomorrow, he had been sure. He looked out of the front parlour window and saw two men entering the side gate, heavy coal sacks on their shoulders. A moment later, as he stood by the door leading down to the cellar, he could hear the coal pouring down the chute. He counted them – one ... two ... three. Yes, a total of a dozen sacks, the contents of which had descended upon two human bodies, covering them completely and, he fervently hoped, forever.

  He mopped his brow with relief and returned to the parlour. Now both Lily and Rose would trouble him no more, and he could relax. Then he remembered the battered little chocolate box that had fallen out of Rose’s cloak as he had taken her body down to the cellar. Where was it? Oh yes, it must be on one of the steps leading down there. He remembered kicking it to one side.

  He ran to the cellar door and stepped down carefully, counting as he went. It was pitch dark, but he could just manage to discern shapes. And there it was. He grabbed it quickly and returned to the hall. The large cupboard beside the cellar would do for now. He opened it and threw the box in, as far back as possible. There was so much junk in there, it would never be found, he was sure. But, when he had time, he’d get rid of it properly. Just to be on the safe side.

  Just as he was thinking this, there came an imperious ring on the front doorbell, shortly followed by Agnes announcing that there was a police officer waiting to see him.

  

  He felt his heart beat rapidly under his heavy waistcoat. How could they have got onto his trail so quickly?

  “A police officer, you say? I wonder what he wants.”

  Agnes stood stolidly and shrugged as if to say, see him and then you’ll find out. “He didn’t say,” was all she said, however.

  “All right, I suppose you’d better show him in, Agnes.”

  There was no help for it. If he had been discovered, perhaps it would be best all-round. He hadn’t even begun to think how he was going to live with his crimes.

  A heavily cloaked and moustached police officer came into the room, bringing a blast of cold January air with him. He took off his helmet and stood politely to attention.

  “Er, I’m sorry to disturb you, sir...” he began.

  “Yes, yes,” said Charles impatiently. “Get to the point, will you?”

  The police officer eyed him balefully, then continued, “I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news, sir.”

  “All right, officer,” said Charles, hardly hearing him. “Do you want me to come with you to the station? Am I under arrest?”

  “Under arrest?” The police officer looked completely baffled.

  “Yes, I presume that’s why you’re here.”

  Charles suddenly realised he was digging himself into a hole that soon he would be unable to get out of.

  “Well, I ... no, not at all,” said the man finally.

  “Oh ... I ...” Charles smiled wanly and sank down into his armchair. “Just my little joke. You’re a policeman so I thought I’d have a little game with you...”

  The policeman gave a polite chuckle. “I see, sir, a little game, eh? No, I’m afraid this is no game, sir. I’ve come with sad news about Mr Edward Moreland, who resides – resided, I should say – in Tottenham. He is – was – your brother, sir?”

  “Edward? Yes, of course. What are you saying?”

  Charles knew at once why the policeman had come to see him, dripping snow all over the carpet from his helmet and heavy boots. What a fool he was. He might have known the London constabulary never moved that fast.

  “I’m sorry to inform you, sir,” said the policeman, “that your brother passed away shortly before four o’clock this afternoon.”

  “What – what happened, officer?”

  “It seems he’d suffered a heart attack a day or two ago from which, despite all efforts, he sadly did not recover.”

  Charles was genuinely upset. He now remembered what Lily had told him. His brother had had a heart attack, but he had been too busy strangling the girl for it to sink in.

  “Can I ring for the maid, sir?” asked the policeman as he watched Charles turn pale at hearing the news. “Shall I ask her to fetch you a glass of water?”

  “No, no, please don’t trouble her,” he said, pulling himself together. “I – I’ll be all right. Er, thank you for informing me, officer.”

  “That’s quite all right, sir,” said the man, putting on his helmet and preparing to leave. “This is the part of my job I hate. I’m sorry to be the bearer of such tidings.”

  “Just one thing –” said Charles as he followed the policeman to the front door. “Why did you come and tell me? Is it usual for a policeman to be involved in a completely natural death?”

  “No, sir, not usual, but before Mr Moreland died, he had apparently said something about being threatened with a knife. That’s how we became involved.”

  “So, are you going to investigate this allegation?”

  “Well, sir, the doctor said that his mind was wandering at the end, and no one in the house had seen anything untoward. Certainly no one wielding a knife. I think it will be decided that the balance of his mind was disturbed as he was dying, but there will be a coroner’s inquiry as a matter of routine.”

  “I see,” said Charles. “Well, I hope there won’t be any scandal attached to his death. It is bad enough I’ve lost my brother, without the prospect of a civil, even criminal, investigation.”

  “I don’t think you need worry about that, sir,” said the policeman. “If the doctor signs the death certificate, then that wil
l be an end of it.”

  Charles fervently hoped so, because if an investigation proceeded it could lead on to all sorts of complications attaching to himself, including, mainly, the disappearance of two of Edward’s young ladies. He could only pray that no one else in the Tottenham house were privy to Lily and Rose’s plans to visit him.

  That would be the finish of him. After all, he couldn’t murder them all, could he?

  Chapter Fifteen

  “What did that policeman want, Charles?”

  Daphne Moreland was standing in the doorway of the parlour, removing her gloves. Having just returned from another successful shopping trip, loaded down with rattles, rag books and other paraphernalia for little Araminta, she was just in time to see the police officer in question turn out of the front gate and head away from her. Her curiosity was very much aroused.

  “He came to tell me that Edward is dead,” replied Charles without preamble.

  Daphne stamped her feet in an attempt to dislodge the snow off her delicate leather boots which had all but been ruined just from walking from the carriage to the front door.

  “Oh, Charles, I’m so sorry! What happened to him?” She came over and sat on the arm of his chair and ruffled his hair affectionately.

  “Heart attack, apparently. And he was so young! He was only two years older than me, for God’s sake!”

  “I know, dear,” said Daphne, sadly. “I was very fond of him, and he has been so good to us.”

  There was no need to spell out just how good he had been to them recently. Charles clutched her hand as if he was afraid to let it go in case he fell. His head was spinning. Wasn’t it only the other day he and Edward were shaking hands, sharing a brotherly confidence? Sealing a bond that couldn’t be broken?

  “You will have to think about the funeral arrangements,” he heard her say, as she gently removed her hand from his grasp. “You are the next of kin, I presume? And no doubt the executor of his will? Won’t the house come to you?”

  There was a greedy light in her eyes, but Charles was too preoccupied to notice it. “We can’t do anything yet, my love,” he said, making an effort to focus on what she was saying. “There has to be a coroner’s inquest first. Besides, I am not his executor, so I think all the arrangements will fall to his solicitors.”

  Daphne looked perturbed. “Not the executor? Inquest? What is all this, Charles?”

  He sighed, not feeling up to long-winded explanations. His older brother, whom he had looked up to all his life, had been suddenly taken. Didn’t Daphne understand that he was grieving? Couldn’t she pipe down for five minutes?

  “It is quite simple, dear. Edward and I had discussed the matter at length. As we were both of an age, it seemed wiser to put the care of our funerals into the hands of our solicitor. Both of us being childless – at the time.”

  “I see,” said Daphne, still not looking entirely satisfied. “But why the need for an inquest? It was a perfectly natural death, wasn’t it?”

  “I understand that when any sudden death occurs, there has to be an inquest. It is just a formality.”

  He could sense her dissatisfaction but was relieved when she suddenly changed the subject. She was talking with animation now, almost as if her brother-in-law’s death had never happened. He tuned out, her words going in one of his ears and out of the other.

  “I’ve bought some lovely toys for Araminta. Look.” She showed him a rag doll with woolly yellow hair and blue gingham bows.

  “Lovely, darling,” said Charles, thinking it the most hideous thing he had ever seen. “Why don’t you take it to her?”

  “Of course,” she said. She gave him a gentle smile. “I’m sorry, Charles. You must be in shock. I’ll leave you alone for a while, shall I?”

  He nodded gratefully. She wasn’t the most sensitive soul in the world, but sometimes she surprised him. She gathered up the parcels and left the room. As she went, he noticed the Hamleys wrapping paper and felt a slight niggle. There were cheaper toy shops, surely? George’s in the High Street, for one. Then he wondered how he could be so concerned with trivialities at such a time.

  He studied his hands and didn’t recognise them. They were the hands of a killer. What had possessed him? Now his only brother was dead, and he wasn’t even able to execute his last wishes. Would the Tottenham house come to him? He supposed so. Would he inherit those bloody women? Probably, but he assumed he’d be able to chuck them out, unless there were any instructions to the contrary in the will.

  Most important of all, however, was the child. Edward’s child. His nephew. How was he to take possession of him now? He would have to tell the authorities that his brother was the father and that Edward had seen fit to entrust his upbringing to him. At least he had the letter to prove it. It wouldn’t do his brother’s reputation any good, of course, but it couldn’t be helped.

  He hadn’t told Daphne about the child, although he wasn’t sure why. Except it seemed expedient to wait until the dust had settled before telling her. Anyway, she had Araminta to fuss over, which was more than enough.

  As he was thinking these bitter thoughts, Daphne came back into the room, looking very cross indeed.

  Oh my God, she knows something. She suspects something. His brain was whirring around in his skull, threatening to explode. His guilty conscience was getting the better of him, and he knew it. He had nearly given himself away once already today. How long could be keep his vile secret? Secrets, rather.

  “What’s this I hear about you upsetting Agnes?”

  What is she talking about, he wondered. Here he was, struggling with the enormity of death, both natural and unnatural, and Daphne was concerning herself about him upsetting a mere servant.

  “I have just had Mrs Gladwin chewing my ear off, Charles. She said that Agnes was in floods of tears because you admonished her for trying to take a milk churn down to the cellar. Are you quite sane? Has the death of your brother turned your brain?”

  “Er, no, of course not. Besides, I didn’t know about that until just now...”

  “Well, then, there is no excuse for upsetting the servants. It is hard enough to keep staff these days, don’t you realise that?”

  “I’m sorry, dear. It’s just that I noticed one of the steps leading down to the cellar looked dangerous. I didn’t want Agnes to fall and hurt herself.”

  “Did you explain that to her, Charles?”

  “I – I thought I did. Maybe I spoke a trifle harshly to her, that is all.”

  Daphne looked grim. “Well, I expect you to make a full apology to the girl. We rely on her for everything, so please do your best not to antagonise her.”

  “Yes, my love... er, no my love.”

  Daphne gave a haughty sniff and flounced out of the room. After what had happened to his brother, he began to wonder if his own heart was defective as well. He could feel it pumping nineteen to the dozen. Calm down, he told himself. He patted his chest and tried to breathe normally. Just how much more stress could he take?

  Where had it all gone wrong? It was only a short while ago all had been right with his world. The new baby, Daphne’s happiness. It had been perfect. It didn’t occur to him that his treatment of Lily Martin, culminating in actually killing her, had been his undoing. Everyone else was to blame, including his departed brother. If Edward hadn’t been so careless, the other strumpet wouldn’t have turned up, forcing him to kill her too.

  Who was he to turn to in his trouble? The full force of Edward’s death hit him now. He would have been the only one he could have confided in. How could he? How could his brother have let him down so badly?

  Chapter Sixteen

  Lydia hugged Rose’s baby closer to her chest, as much to keep herself warm as for the baby’s benefit. She had been saddled with this burden without any option and was resenting the responsibility. Since Rose’s disappearance, she had taken charge of little Edward Moreland Jones as she had been asked, but the baby had turned out to be a grizzler. Surely, he wasn’t
missing Rose already, she had thought. But she supposed he was missing the breast milk more than his mother.

  As the days passed, she began to realise her feelings towards the child had changed. She had thought him a sweet little thing at first but being responsible for looking after him all the time had changed her opinion. He was always crying, and his nose was always running. The poor mite was cold and hungry, just like her, of course, but she still couldn’t feel anything for him. Certainly nothing maternal. It just wasn’t in her.

  If it had been up to her, she wouldn’t have taken the baby and run away. But, after the death of her master, his brother had turned up, and she had heard him ask where Rose’s baby was. That had been enough. She had to take the poor little mite and get as far away from Charles Moreland as possible.

  She had been wandering the streets of North London for days with no idea what to do. The winter was proving a colder and harsher one than she could remember and, if she didn’t know where the icy blasts were coming from, she certainly knew where they were going. She had only the one pair of pantaloons, and they were full of holes.

  Tonight, her wanderings had led her into the seamier London streets and, before she knew it, she was in the heart of Soho. There were prostitutes huddled in every doorway, most of whom leapt out when they heard her footsteps, no doubt expecting (or hoping) to find a punter. The look of disappointment on their poor, worn faces broke Lydia’s heart. She began to think she would have to join them soon if she and the baby weren’t to starve to death.

  The lights of Soho blinded her as she found an unoccupied doorway at last and huddled inside it. Her eyes were attracted to a large building across the street, the windows of which blazed with light. Then a door opened, and she saw several young men, in varying degrees of intoxication, emerge. It must be some kind of ‘gentlemen’s’ club, she thought, although they didn’t look much like gentlemen, the state they were in. All except one. He looked different. If she had to ply her sorry wares with anyone, she wouldn’t totally object to it being him.