‘Come on,’ she chided.
‘I’ll be there in a minute.’ The voice was sleepy.
‘There in a minute? Last time I gave you a minute, you nodded off in the shed with a hammer in one hand, nails in the other. Come on. Now.’
He stood up, rubbed his eyes and glared at Eva. ‘All right, boss,’ he said before a yawn overcame him.
Eva ushered him out of the house, leaving Agnes alone once more with twin burdens – one a small child, the other a quantity she wished could remain unknown. It was ten minutes past eight and, though the days were getting longer, the light was diminishing fast. Denis had to be home soon.
With the baby settled once more, Agnes picked up the envelope and weighed it in her hand. It looked heavy, but it wasn’t. Its contents were going to be heavy, though. Where was Denis when she needed him most? He hated the yacht, only went aboard if the judge had too small a crew to help with his latest toy. The big man was talking about retirement. Well, if he thought Denis would traipse around the seven seas with a murderer he had another think coming.
She looked inside. There were two smaller envelopes, one off-white and flimsy, the other buff-coloured and brand new. ‘Come home, Denis,’ she mouthed. ‘I can’t do this.’ The washing was folded and the house was clean. She should start ironing. The trouble with being a housewife was that most jobs were automatic and didn’t prevent the mind from working. She had books. But she couldn’t imagine concentrating on the written word while she was in her current state.
The phone sounded again and she picked it up quickly in case it woke the baby. It was Helen. No, she hadn’t read the letters. She was waiting for Denis. Helen didn’t want Denis to read the letters. ‘We have no secrets,’ Agnes said. ‘Don’t you trust him?’
She did trust him, but Agnes was her sister and this needed to be kept in the family for now.
‘Then come and take the damned things away, Helen. Anyway, he’s my family. You’ve told me already that your dad killed your mother – I expect he killed mine, too, though not as directly. I’m sorry – it’s me and Denis or neither of us. Whether I read this lot or not, my husband will know what you told me earlier.’
Helen expressed the fear that Denis might walk out of the job if he knew the full truth. ‘Neither Millie nor I will feel safe if Denis isn’t here for half the week.’
It was stalemate. In the end, Helen had to grant permission for Denis to see the letters, because, no matter what, Agnes would tell him what she already knew. ‘As I just said, I’ll be telling him about the murder anyway. We lead a shared life, Helen. It’s the only way to stay married.’
At last, he came home. Still on tenterhooks, Agnes served his meal and waited until he had finished and the table was cleared. They drank coffee in the living room, Denis describing his time in Morecambe Bay, Agnes listening while he went through seasickness and his employer’s attitude to the crew. After five or so minutes, Denis finally noticed his wife’s silence. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked.
She nodded in the direction of the offending item. ‘Helen dragged George to the bank and pulled the letters from the vault. She brought them here for me to read. Denis?’
‘What?’
Agnes swallowed. ‘She says he killed the first Mrs Spencer – Helen’s mam. The proof’s in that package. I couldn’t read it on my own.’
He placed his cup and saucer on the windowsill. ‘Killed her? By making her life a misery? Aye, I’ve heard people saying she died on purpose just to get away from him.’
Agnes shook her head. ‘No. Murder. Real, actual murder.’
A heavy silence hung over the room while they both stared at Helen Spencer’s property. ‘How long’s it been here?’ Denis asked.
‘Hours. Helen phoned, because she thought I’d have read them. Lucy phoned and asked what was in them. Pop and Eva came – that killed half an hour or so. I’m worried about Millie in case Helen isn’t up to the job. It’s not easy work.’
‘No.’ He stood up. ‘Shall I read it out?’
Agnes closed her eyes for a moment. ‘No. Read a sheet, then hand it to me. I don’t think I want to hear the words from you. This is none of our doing, so it’s best if the words stay flat on the page.’
He opened the main envelope and removed the contents. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘that’s the first incision.’
It took over an hour. Agnes wept, while Denis determinedly held back his own tears. At the end, he folded everything and placed both letters, each in its separate envelope, back inside the outer cover. ‘I don’t want that stuff in my house,’ he said gruffly.
‘Neither do I.’
‘Why did she bring it?’ he asked.
Agnes had an insubstantial answer. ‘Millie’s father is a killer. Helen holds those letters over him like the sword of Damocles. But if she is forced to reveal their contents, she will be tainting Millie’s life for ever. Millie would have to go through school in the company of people who might be aware of her family’s skeletons. Helen knows her father will be thinking along the same lines, so I suppose she just wanted someone else to have seen the contents. She said Millie has taken away her insurance policy. Denis, she’s running round like a blindfolded cat, all confusion and desperation.’
Denis sat quietly for a few seconds. ‘I could take it out of her hands now. I could carry Mabel Turnbull’s letter to a police station and get the bloody business over and done with.’
‘But you won’t.’
‘No. It could destroy Helen, too. She’d be so worried about the baby that she’d lose her marbles again. What a mess.’
‘She wants you to promise not to give up working part time for her dad. She’d be scared if you left.’
Agnes could not get to sleep that night. She tossed and turned alongside her husband, tried to relax, failed miserably. In the end, she abandoned the attempt and, at three in the morning, she reread the close, tiny handwriting of Mabel Turnbull. It was no less shocking the second time, but Agnes needed to make an effort to digest it fully.
With a cup of tea at her elbow, she started again.
My name is Mabel Anne Turnbull. I was employed by Mr and Mrs Spencer in 1932, when their daughter (Helen) was a few months old. Mr Spencer was away quite often. His work took him all over the place and he stayed at his club a lot. He seemed to be keener on his friends and colleagues than on his family and was anxious to be invited to join the Freemasons. He was one of the youngest ever lawyers to be called to the bar and was always determined to become a judge. His wife was frail. I was left to look after her and Helen during his absences.
I am ashamed to say that I was one of the many women to be seduced by Zachary Spencer. He was very attractive and charming and he gave me a job in his household. My head was turned – I was a silly girl. From the day I began working at Lambert House, my sympathies and loyalties were with Mrs Spencer and her young daughter, Helen. I made it plain to my employer that there would be no further intimacy between us and he was unconcerned, as he had many lady friends all over the country. He came home from time to time, but not on a regular basis, as he was far too selfish to consider the needs of anyone but himself.
Not that he was any use when he was there. Mrs Spencer had a bad heart, but he yelled at her a lot and got her worked up. She gave as good as she got sometimes, but would be ill afterwards. He kept screaming at her because she hadn’t managed to give him a son and was too ill to try again. Sometimes, I wanted to hit him. He ignored Miss Helen most of the time. She was all right at first, because she had her mummy as well as me to play with, but her father made her feel unhappy when he shouted. I loathed and despised Zachary Spencer and my feelings towards him remain the same, but I swear I am telling the truth rather than seeking vengeance.
It got worse. He was bad when he drank and he drank too much. I used to keep Miss Helen upstairs a lot of the time because she was safer away from him and his noise. But there wasn’t much I could do for her poor mother. She stood up to him and got weaker a
ll the time.
The weakness took the form of turns – like fainting fits – and she would lie very still and hardly breathing. There were tablets to put under her tongue. She always had them with her and I always carried some just to be safe. I begged her to stop facing up to him, but she wouldn’t listen. If her health had been good, she would have divorced him, I’m sure. He was and is a cruel man. He hates his daughter and she likely hates him, with good reason on her part.
Things went on the same with him away a lot and his wife not well. We had some nice times when there were just the three of us. Helen seemed shy and frightened, but that was his fault, because she was all right with her mother and me. (After her mother died, she got naughty, but that was understandable.)
His absences became less frequent. Most people in normal families would have been glad, but we weren’t, because we dreaded him being back full time and we were better off without him. He stayed for longer periods at the house. The mistress, Miss Helen and I kept out of his way whenever possible, but there was no way of avoiding him altogether.
He started telling the mistress to get out of his house because she was useless. I remember her laughing at him – not amused laughing, more sneering. She said she would leave Lambert House in a box and he said that could be arranged. I could hear from the top of the stairs – they were really screaming at one another.
When I got to bed that night, my cocoa was already waiting for me. Old Mrs Battersby, who slept in an attic, was the live-in cook in those days and she was very good to me and to Miss Helen and she always made my cocoa before going up to her own room under the eaves at the other side of the house. I drank my cocoa and must have fallen asleep straight away. The next thing I knew, Miss Helen was tugging and pulling at me. I got out of bed and I felt very strange. Ever since, I have been sure that he must have drugged my cocoa after Mrs Battersby left it by my bed.
They were fighting again. Mrs Spencer was calling him all kinds of names and her language was very strong for a lady, but I didn’t blame her. I pulled open the door a crack and he had her at the top of the stairs. He pushed her. I swear on a hill of Bibles that I saw Zachary Spencer kill his wife that night. The drugs dulled my mind, but I know what I saw.
He made her fall down the stairs. She had tumbled down before – one of her fainting fits on the stairs – the doctor knew about it and had told her to sleep on the ground floor, but she was never one for doing as she was ordered. She was weak in body but determined in mind and her husband did not like anyone who argued with him. Anyway, I saw him push her. Where the stairs turn near the bottom, she was lying like a rag doll. I think she was already dead before he went near her again. He walked downstairs and pulled her down the rest of the steps into the hall and I could hear her head banging on each of the treads.
He stood over her and told her she would be leaving in a box. I saw him bend and feel for a pulse. Then I noticed Miss Helen clinging to my nightdress. I don’t know what she had seen, but I told her to come away. We went back into the bedroom. Miss Helen didn’t say a word. I sat with her till she fell asleep, then I opened the door again and he was still standing over Mrs Spencer. As I closed the door, he looked up, but I didn’t think he had seen me.
The ambulance came. Mrs Spencer was taken away and he went with her. He was shouting and pretending to be upset. I drank a lot of water to get the drugs out of me. The little girl slept. I sat all night in a chair and I heard him come back. The next morning, he told us his wife had suffered a heart attack and broken her neck on the stairs. He was staring at me.
I handed in my notice after the funeral. Mr Spencer begged me to stay as housekeeper for a lot more money. I did stay, but more for the sake of the child. I was frightened all the time, yet I worried about Miss Helen and stayed for her sake. But he got her a governess and I didn’t have a lot to do with Miss Helen after that. From the age of three, she was given lessons and she read like an adult at a very young age. She had a good brain. The first governess said she was the cleverest child she had taught so far. But she did become very quiet and rather underhand and naughty at times. I was the only one who understood why, but I could not talk to such a small child about what had happened before her third birthday.
He continued to behave atrociously to women. I remember clearly one occasion just before the end of the war. A young girl called Eileen Grimshaw came to the house. She was pregnant and he would not help her in any way. He had thrown her out of his office and denied his involvement with her. She came to me and there was nothing I could do for her.
I left the house in 1944. He got me a good job and continued to send me money. When I was still relatively young, I became disabled with the arthritis. He still sent me money and paid for me to have residential care.
I have nothing to gain by writing this letter. I don’t know how much time I have left, but I am leaving what I have written in the care of a solicitor. It is for Miss Helen Spencer, daughter of Judge Zachary Spencer and Elizabeth Spencer, deceased. He should not get away with it. A man in his high position is supposed to be decent and law-abiding. He killed his wife. Please accept this as the statement of a dying woman. I don’t know when I will die, but I have to write this while my hands still work.
Helen may remember that night. She has not spoken of it as far as I know, but she may have seen some of what happened. When she became naughty, I truly believed that what she knew had affected her, but I am not a clever woman and I can’t say for sure.
Miss Helen, if you read this, please know that I did all I could for you. When I became housekeeper, I saw less of you, but at least I was there. Sometimes, he would look at me and I could tell he was wondering what I knew of the night when your mother died. He was never sure of me, which is why he has kept me in comfort.
I wish you well in your life and hope you grow strong in spite of your father and his wickedness. My only regret is that I did not prevent your mother’s murder. She would not have lasted long, but her death should have been natural and not assisted by the creature she had married. If he had been putting her out of her misery, I might have understood, but he killed her because she disappointed him and answered him back.
Should Miss Helen Spencer predecease me, this will be read by the lawyers into whose hands I have placed it. Sirs, Judge Zachary Spencer is a murderer and he should be tried for his crime. I swear by Almighty God that everything I have written here is the truth. My education is limited, but I am well read and I know right from wrong. Please have him arrested.
Yours sincerely, M. Turnbull (Miss)
Agnes took a sip of water. There was a ring of honesty to the letter and she did not doubt the contents for one moment. The handwriting was shaky, because the author had suffered pain in her joints, yet she had laboured, possibly over a period of days, to get the letter finished. It was the absolute truth – of that Agnes was certain. The bit about her mother had cut her to the quick.
There was no need to reread the few lines appended by Helen in the other envelope. Helen had confirmed Mabel’s statement and had explained about the nightmares and the amnesia brought on by shock. But now Helen was afraid of these letters. She had depended on them for her own safety and security, but she now felt that their very existence threatened the well-being of an innocent baby girl.
Birds began to sing. Agnes drew back the curtains and watched the dawn as it started to break. This was a time of day when wakefulness could be a burden, because the person who did not sleep felt truly isolated and out of step. It would be a difficult day, since she was bound to be tired and edgy. But no – it was a George-and-Lucy day, so Denis could make his apologies, stay at home and help with the baby, because George knew that Agnes had the letters and would be in some kind of shock. Agnes and Denis needed time together, as there was a decision to be made. Should they go to the police and risk Helen’s wrath? Or should they keep quiet, just as Mabel Turnbull had kept quiet?
Sometimes, there was a very hazy line between right and wrong,
Agnes thought. Pure right could be a terrible thing with dreadful consequences; wrong was often the kinder choice. A man who abused his position should be punished, yet his punishment might affect the lives of people who did not deserve to be hurt. Denis wanted to go to the police. Agnes did not. The decision would be hers, because Helen Spencer was probably her half-sister. But what was the right thing? Nobody wanted Millie to become the butt of jokes and snide remarks because her father had been the infamous and murderous judge.
‘Agnes?’
She turned to her husband. ‘She’s right, Denis. Millie could suffer if all this came out. Poor old Mabel Turnbull was wasting her time, too, it seems.’
‘So we do nothing?’
Agnes nodded. ‘We can only make things worse by interfering.’ The charade had to continue. ‘Don’t go to work, sweetheart. Phone George – he’ll understand.’
‘Spencer should be in jail, Agnes.’
‘I know.’
‘And the house is like a time bomb – something has to give. She’ll crack. He’s made her brittle and frail. God, what is the right thing to do?’
Agnes shrugged and smiled weakly. ‘The wrong thing is sometimes the right thing. This is one of the sometimes.’
The house had been built very cleverly, each room a section that slotted onto the room beneath. Even the ground floor lifted off to show cellars with boiler, coal store, miniature wine racks and bottles. Fred was very proud of his achievement, though his delight was tinged with sadness, because the house had been made for Louisa, who had died giving birth to a daughter. ‘Just like our Eileen,’ he whispered as he put some finishing touches to his work. The house would belong now to little Millie, so it needed to be strong and durable. He was examining pegs and slots when the row began.
The replica of Lambert House, now in its permanent place of residence in the hall, looked wonderful. Absorbed in his work, Fred fought not to hear the raised voices of the judge and his daughter. All families had differences that needed airing from time to time, and he was wondering whether to change the carpet in one of his rooms, since the real floor covering in Lambert House’s library was in a lighter colour than the one he had used. It was hard to concentrate.
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