The Judge's Daughter

by Ruth Hamilton

  She was staring at herself in the mirrored front of a small cabinet over the basin. ‘I don’t look like him.’

  ‘No, you are beautiful.’

  Agnes turned. ‘I hope my mother went with someone else as well as him. I hope my dad’s out there somewhere sweeping up or weaving sheets. I’d rather be the daughter of a criminal . . .’ She was the daughter of a criminal – Helen had just said so. Helen was her sister. ‘I always wanted not to be an only child,’ she said. ‘But him? Why him? Why did my mother go with a brute like that one?’

  ‘We’ll never know, sweetheart.’

  ‘Rape?’ she asked.

  ‘No way of finding out.’

  ‘Nan and Pop always said my mam wasn’t cheap, that she seldom went out of the house and seemed to have no boyfriend.’

  Denis nodded.

  ‘We have to look after Helen now, Denis. She’s family. What will Pop say?’ She sank onto the toilet seat. ‘Pop doesn’t deserve this.’

  ‘He doesn’t need to know. Remember the stroke? News like this would put his blood pressure at the top of Everest. You know what he’s like, love. He gets himself worked up even when he’s having fun – imagine what this could do to him.’

  She nodded.

  ‘I’ve got a feeling I lost my job today.’

  Agnes stared into the near distance. ‘Lucy was right. We should have kept away when she told us to.’ She lifted hands reddened by scrubbing. ‘I’ve nearly worn the nail brush out,’ she said. ‘But I can’t rub him out. I’ll never be able to rub him out, because he’s in me.’ She swallowed hard. ‘I came from that pig.’

  ‘So did Helen.’

  ‘She’s used to it.’

  Denis perched on the edge of the bath. ‘We haven’t read the letter. I’m not saying that Helen is lying deliberately, but she does get confused.’

  Agnes shook her head. ‘Not any more, she doesn’t. What she gets now is angry. She has his temper.’

  ‘You don’t, though. You’re nothing like him.’

  ‘No, but I am carrying his grandchild.’

  ‘Agnes, you can’t be sure of that.’

  But she was sure. She continued sure for the rest of the day, even after questioning Helen very closely. ‘It fits,’ Helen informed her firmly. ‘Miss Turnbull had nothing to gain by nominating your mother as one of his conquests. She herself was another victim, though she can’t have borne a child or she would have mentioned it in an effort to secure some inheritance for it. No, she was simply recording the facts – it has to be true.’

  Evening found them in the living room, all thoughts of board games abandoned. Louisa, who had eaten a good meal, was the first to speak. ‘He’s not hurting this baby,’ she declared. ‘I’m going to eat everything that gets put in front of me, because the child must be strong.’

  Helen nodded. ‘What do we do about you and Denis?’ she asked her newly acquired sister. ‘The half of your rent will be paid – I’ll see to that.’ She raised a hand to stop any argument. ‘I’ll see to it,’ she repeated.

  ‘I’ll help with George’s barn,’ said Denis.

  Agnes had little to say. Stunned, she merely sat, hardly hearing the conversation. She thought about her poor mother, knew that Eileen had gone right through a pregnancy with no husband and little financial support. Pregnancy was not much fun, but Eileen had been forced to endure it without the comfort of a partner. Agnes thanked God for Denis, for Pop and for Nan.

  Denis, too, seemed lost in thought. He was chewing his nails – a habit he had lost in his teens. He had clouted a judge.

  Helen was the one who brought sense to the situation. ‘Look, none of this is new. Life is much the same as it was yesterday, except that we now have a little more knowledge. That can be said of any day – we learn as we grow. He didn’t suddenly become your father, Agnes. Denis – you’ve never liked him. Louisa – you’ve lived with your mistake for months – what’s changed? I have a sister and a brother-in-law – I shall be an aunt in the spring. We can’t let him win. There is more to that letter than your mother’s name, Agnes – a great deal more. But that’s my problem – you all have enough of your own. Let’s have our holiday. Denis – you phone George and tell him you’ll take the job. Go by bus to work, or borrow my car. Agnes – just learn to live with it. Sorry to sound harsh, but nothing matters beyond your own family.’

  ‘You’re my family,’ Agnes whispered.

  Helen smiled. ‘So it would seem. Louisa, do your best. You are the one who is forced to be close to him. For the baby, play your part. We’ll rethink after the birth.’

  No one slept well that night. But each realized that Helen was right – life had to continue alongside him and in spite of him. Helen rested better than the others. Her anger was too deep to be allowed near the surface, so she lay sleepless, though not in pain. Retribution had not yet begun . . .

  He did not remember the journey, partly because he had been unfit to drive, mostly because his mind was filled by the dreadful scene in the house he had visited. What had that damned Turnbull woman written and what had she seen? Yes, he had known her in the biblical sense, but had the quiet, compliant woman been a witness to something he had sought to hide? That letter had to be retrieved from the offices in town.

  Kate Moores was just leaving. She saw him, but asked no questions about his scarred face. It seemed that she was yet another member of his daughter’s coven. How much did Helen know and what had she told the other witches?

  Eileen Grimshaw. He threw his hat in the general direction of the coat stand. She had been about as much fun as a burning orphanage. He remembered her tears, recalled her coming to his office to speak of her pregnancy. He had dragged her outside, had told her to keep her mouth shut, as he would deny everything. Who would take the word of a mill girl over that of a rising lawyer? She must have come here, to the house, must have told her tale of woe to Mabel Turnbull. Mabel Turnbull had seen fit to record the incident along with . . . The big man shivered.

  He dropped into a chair. Bolton was the biggest town in England, yet the Makepeace woman had found her way to Skirlaugh Fall and into his house. Her grandfather’s surname had not registered – it was not a common name, but there were too many Grimshaws in Lancashire to merit undue concern. In truth, he had forgotten about Eileen Grimshaw until today.

  His face hurt from twin track marks made by an illegitimate daughter, while his nose, victim of his son-in-law’s punch, throbbed with every beat of his heart. He had lost Denis. He realized that the loss of Denis was no small matter, because Denis had always listened, and seldom replied. He was a good gardener, an excellent driver and a man on whom the judge had come to depend.

  He needed to find another chauffeur-cum-handyman, someone biddable, grateful and good-tempered. The nose continued to throb – even Denis Makepeace’s patience did not last forever. The assaults would have to be ignored – Zachary knew he was in no position to have his assailants arrested. Helen had ensured their freedom from prosecution. She was a clever woman, had probably been a clever child – he should have noticed her. Clever women were a commodity much resented by him – they were unnecessary. But, had he kept her on his side, she might have turned into an asset rather than an adversary.

  In the bathroom, he bathed his face, flinching when applying ointment to marks bequeathed by Mrs Agnes Makepeace. His hand stopped in mid-air. She was his daughter; she was carrying his grandchild. Louisa’s chances of giving birth to a healthy son were not looking good. That wife of Denis’s was a fine specimen – nothing like her downtrodden mother.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he mumbled. ‘Fine pickle, this is.’ He felt his nose, assumed that it was not broken, went to bed. He lay there for half the night, his mind on one single track – he tried to imagine what was in the Turnbull letter. Helen had judged the contents to be enough to send him to jail – but no, that could not be right. No one had seen. He remained absolutely sure that there had been no witnesses to . . . It was better not to think a
bout that particular event. Nothing could be proved, anyway. Yet he wanted to see both letters, needed to know the lies contained in those pages.

  When he slept, he groaned and moaned his way through a dream that was new to him. A long staircase, noises, dragging. What was that? Had he heard the closing of a door? Had the sedatives failed? No, he was imagining the sound. The staircase grew longer. The nearer he got to the bottom, the more stairs it collected. He had to get there soon – had to move the evidence. That door again. No, no, they were fast asleep.

  Morning found him in physical pain from yesterday’s attacks. His mind, too, was disturbed by the troubled night. Women. This was all the fault of the female of the species, the mothers, wives, sisters and daughters inflicted by God as a punishment on mankind. It wasn’t fair. And he had lost Denis.

  October was passing. With enormous reluctance, Helen, Agnes and Louisa packed. Denis, who had visited most weekends, carried the baggage out to the car. It was time to go home.

  Louisa, leaning for moral support on her stepdaughter, was returning to a man she had not seen since the day Helen had routed him. He had telephoned, had asked about the well-being of his wife and child, but he had not dared to come again to Morecambe. Louisa, in better health, had finally begun to bloom, but she showed signs of wilting when they left the house for the last time.

  ‘Stay with us,’ Agnes begged. ‘We’ve got a spare room and you’re welcome to it.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘I’ll look after her,’ said Helen. ‘She will live with me in my apartment. There’s nothing he can do, you see. I’d have fleeced him of all his money by now if I’d chosen to blackmail him. But I want him exactly where he is while I work out what to do with him.’

  Agnes shivered. The weather was cold, but not as icy as the tone of Helen Spencer’s voice. ‘Don’t do anything daft, Helen,’ she begged.

  ‘I won’t.’

  Agnes did not believe that. Helen seemed to have achieved a state in which she was calm to the point of madness – if such a thing were possible. The woman had a goal in life, and that goal was probably the destruction of Zachary Spencer. Agnes’s own anger remained, but that was a healthy reaction, she believed, since she had only recently found out the name of the person who had impregnated and abandoned her own mother. Perhaps anger cooled over a period of months or years; perhaps she, too, would arrive at a place in which she wanted revenge. But she doubted that. The facts had to be accepted and dealt with – the rewriting of history was an impossibility.

  ‘Agnes?’

  She looked at her sister. ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t worry.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  Helen climbed into the front passenger seat while Denis took the wheel. She was calm. But her main goal in life for now was to get past the two births – it was suddenly important that the expected children should be delivered in safety. Louisa, who had become a dear friend, must be guarded at all times; Agnes, Helen’s new-found sister, should also be made secure. The babies were the priority for the time being. After the births, open season could begin.

  Denis started the car. ‘Are we set?’ he asked.

  ‘In stone,’ replied Helen.

  Louisa was weeping softly in the back of the car.

  ‘Don’t cry,’ begged Agnes. ‘Helen will look after you. Once she’s made her mind up about something, there’s no budging her. He’s never hit you, has he?’

  ‘His blows don’t show on the surface.’ Helen settled back in her seat. ‘He’s careful like that.’ But so was she. Helen was, after all, her father’s daughter.

  The judge was away. Helen and Louisa settled into the apartment. Their prepared story was to be that Louisa needed a female at hand, because certain symptoms had begun to appear, and a man would not understand. He would fall for that, or so Helen believed. She could not imagine her father wanting to discuss the complicated arrangements of a woman’s reproductive system.

  Oscar had returned from his holiday with Fred and Denis, who had taken turns to mind him. The dog, who was twice the size he had been a month ago, yapped joyfully when he greeted them. Slightly older and wiser, he knew what he had to do. He had to be here; these women needed him.

  They had been back for three days when Kate Moores knocked at their door. ‘There’s a young fellow to see you,’ she told Helen. ‘Wants to see you on your own. I’ll sit with the missus while you go.’

  Helen descended the back staircase slowly. Where was Father? And which young man had he sent to perpetrate some kind of revenge? No, no, he would not dare . . . Would he?

  The young man stood in Kate’s kitchen, flat cap squashed in nervous hands, a slight slick of sweat glistening on a handsome face. ‘Miss Helen Spencer?’ he asked timidly.

  ‘For my sins, yes. But you have the advantage of me, because I don’t know you at all. Or do I?’

  ‘Harry Timpson, Miss Spencer. My mam asked you to help me and you did.’ He moved forward, words tumbling from his lips. ‘You’ve turned my life round. I couldn’t have done prison again. It would have killed my mam. Your dad gave me probation – I expected a good three years. But I never blew the safe – I just took the jewellery to sell. Anyway, the long and short is this – I’m not the same person, honest. I have to behave now.’

  ‘Please, it was nothing—’

  ‘It was everything. I mean, I’ve no job and no money, but I can walk about and meet my mates – as long as I don’t break the law. Which is why—’ He stopped abruptly.

  Helen set the kettle to boil. ‘Milk and sugar?’ she asked.

  He nodded, but remained silent.

  She placed the pot on the table, asked him to sit, poured the tea. ‘What’s bothering you, Harry? May I call you Harry?’

  ‘Aye, it’s my name.’

  ‘Well, Harry?’

  He took a mouthful of tea. ‘I’d be better off with whisky,’ he managed.

  ‘Shall I get some?’

  ‘No.’ Harry inhaled deeply. ‘I’m in a bit of a pickle, as my mother would put it.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Aye.’ He drank more of the scalding tea, wiped his mouth on the back of a hand. ‘There’s this man,’ he began lamely.

  She decided to allow him to proceed at his own pace.

  ‘He’s asked me to do summat. It’s a break-in at a lawyer’s.’

  Helen nodded. He scarcely needed to utter another syllable, but she let him continue.

  ‘I’m to look for files under two names.’ Harry bowed his head. ‘I’m on probation. If I get caught, my feet won’t touch the floor, because nobody would believe the name of the man who told me to do this. He’s promised me a job, a proper job, if I do the robbery. He’s high up, you see. I’d get years inside and he’d get away with it.’

  ‘The names?’ she asked.

  He shook his head slowly.

  ‘Do they begin with S and T?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I know who has asked you to do that dreadful deed.’ She stood up and paced about for a few minutes. ‘The man who broke the safe in Manchester – do you know him?’

  Harry nodded.

  ‘I’ll pay him to do this job in your place. Don’t tell me his name – I have no need of it. I shall give him one thousand pounds.’

  Harry swallowed. ‘Eh?’

  ‘One thousand. But wait until next Friday. Tell my— Tell your employer that it will be next Friday.’ She needed time, needed to plant something in those offices – the safe-breaker should not leave empty-handed.

  Harry’s eyes were bright with a mixture of tears and adoration. She had saved him once and she was about to save him a second time. ‘I don’t know how to thank you,’ he mumbled.

  The boot was on a different foot, mused Helen after her grateful visitor had left. Her father was wasting his time by getting the offices raided, because both documents were sealed in an impenetrable vault below the pavement at a Bolton bank. There would be something to be found, though. She intend
ed to hand another sealed letter to Lucy Henshaw. The contents could be quite amusing – she might write Fooled you, Daddy – no, she would not do that, because Harry Timpson needed to be in the clear.

  A little note reminding George to confirm that her letters were in the bank would suffice. She had already received confirmation, but she could pretend that the letter had gone astray in the post. Life was interesting, she reminded herself as she returned to her rooms. Revenge was sweet, but it needed to be served cold. There would be something for the burglar to find and, if he were arrested, no one would believe that a judge’s daughter had initiated the crime. ‘It works both ways, Father,’ whispered Helen into the quiet of the hall. ‘I can play the game, too.’

  ‘What did he want?’ Louisa asked when Helen returned.

  ‘My father is thinking of giving him a job,’ she said.

  Kate was not pleased. ‘I felt safer when Denis was here,’ she grumbled.

  ‘We all did.’ Louisa went to lie on a sofa. Her back ached, her feet were swollen – and she had another five months to endure.

  ‘That’s right, you have a sleep,’ advised Kate. ‘I’ll go and get on with me baking.’

  Helen gazed into the flames. It seemed that Father had played right into her hands by asking for Harry Timpson’s help. Harry was Helen’s man. He was grateful to her and only to her. Harry would be an asset – she would make sure of that.

  ‘What are you cooking up now?’ asked a sleepy Louisa.

  ‘Nothing of any consequence. Go to sleep. We’ll need our wits about us when Father gets home. If he comes home.’ Perhaps he was afraid. Perhaps he would move into his club for good.

  ‘He’ll come home,’ sighed Louisa.

  Helen made no effort to reply. Her father had no home, though his place in hell was booked and waiting. Nothing mattered now, because Helen held the biggest weapon available – she knew his darkest secrets. Let him come, let him go – she had the upper hand and would hold on tightly to the bitterest of ends.