She left the library and walked to her car, picking up a local evening newspaper on the way. Why did James Quislan change his name at the age of nine? Perhaps Emily remarried, she thought. That would be the obvious answer. But then, why would she block in the well? And why was her land removed from her?
Agnes wished it was earlier in the day. She could hardly bear to wait until tomorrow to continue her pursuit of Charlotte Quislan. Still, she thought, there was another trail to follow in the meantime.
At home she dialled Mike Reynolds.
Sam answered. ‘Thank God he’s out,’ she said. ‘At last we can talk now.’
‘What’s happening?’
‘I can’t bear it,’ Sam said. ‘He thinks I’m about eight or something. I went out last night and I got back long before twelve but he hit the roof. He’s threatening to lock me in on Friday morning, and we’ve ’ad such rows. I’ve told him, I’m going to this eviction, he can’t stop me. I’ve worked it out, if you pick me up in the car he’ll never know till I’ve gone.’
‘Sam, wait a minute. Has he mentioned someone called Tom Bevan?’
There was a pause. Then Sam said, ‘No, but Col did.’
‘Col? What did Col say about him?’
‘When Col came to see me here, not long before he died, he said he’d met someone called Tom Bevan.’
‘Where had he met him?’
‘In London, somewhere, I think. And he said he knew my dad.’
‘What — Mike? He knew Mike?’
‘Yes. No. Oh, I dunno. Col was always going on about how Mike wasn’t my dad.’
‘How did he meet Tom Bevan?’
‘Dunno. Maybe just hanging out, you know.’
‘Hanging out where?’
‘You know, where people go.’
‘What was Col doing in London?’
‘He’d go there sometimes to get money. Begging, you know.’
‘But why should Tom Bevan be there when Col … it doesn’t make sense,’ Agnes said. ‘And Mike hasn’t mentioned him, Tom, I mean?’
‘Mike? No, why should he? Ain’t nothin’ to do with him.’ Sam yawned. ‘Agnes, you will be there Friday, won’t you? ’Cos I’m going, right? And if he tries to lock me in I’ll just escape anyway, and never come back.’
Agnes sighed. ‘OK. I’ll be outside, in the car, at five thirty. You’d better be awake.’
‘’Course I’ll be awake. Special occasion, innit.’
Friday, then, Agnes thought, replacing the receiver. On Friday, Sam will be in my car. And she’ll have no choice but to tell me what she knows about Emily Quislan.
It was eight o’clock. Agnes opened a tin of soup and stirred it over the heat with one hand. Her other hand felt in her pocket for the broken crucifix. And what of Morris Stanton? she thought. There must have been insufficient evidence to bring charges. Agnes poured the soup into a bowl. And what am I to do about Tom Bevan?
She sat down to eat and flicked through the local paper. There it was:
DYE MENACE TO FYFFES WELL: Police are investigating an attempt to sabotage the water bottling factory at Fyffes Well near Broxted. Intruders introduced fluorescein, a yellow dye, into the source of the spring, rendering several thousand litres of the water unsaleable. Managing Director Richard Witham said he was unaware of anyone with a grievance towards him. Police have not ruled out a connection with the New Age Travellers living on the nearby site of the new Mil road link.
Agnes sighed. What was Col doing, getting involved in some re-enactment of a past drama? And meeting Tom Bevan, apparently by chance? She shuddered, and her hand went to the gap at her neck where for years there had been a crucifix. The phone rang.
‘Agnes —’
‘Julius —’
‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes. Got a lot on.’
‘Agnes, answer me. Christiane’s desperate to talk to you, Madeleine is really worried, the hostel’s very short-staffed and they’ve had no word from you —’
‘Julius —’
‘It’s sure as can be a stupid childish way you’re behaving.’
‘I’m not ready to talk about it.’
Julius was quiet. At last he said, ‘Fine. When you are in the mood, maybe I’ll still be here.’
Agnes felt a heavy silence descend as she put the phone down. When, much later that night, she settled down to sleep, the silence was still there, still enclosing her in numbness.
*
Charlotte Quislan, thought Agnes waking the next morning. She walked to the bus stop, thinking about how old James might have been when he married, how old when his daughters were born.
1860, she thought, arriving at St Catherine’s House and pulling down the volume for the first quarter of that year. Quislan. Thank God it’s not Smith, she thought, going to the next quarter, and the next. Finally, in December 1861 she found Jessica Quislan. And then, in July, 1864 she found Charlotte Quislan, registered in Brentwood, Essex.
The search through the marriage volumes took longer. Agnes heard the bells of the City chiming noon as she took down yet another volume for 1884 and saw the name Quislan, Charlotte, married Robert Kemble, in London.
London, Agnes thought, as the last note of noon chimed in the distance. They could have lived anywhere; they could have had six children, or none. She went back to the birth volumes, and starting in 1885 she leafed rather half-heartedly through the Kembles, finding two registered for that year, William and Emily, four for the following year, and a James and a Sarah in 1888. She thumped the book closed and replaced it on the shelf. She had lost the trail.
She emerged into the heat of the afternoon with a headache and walked down towards the Embankment, then east along the Thames for a while, until at Blackfriars she picked up a number 44 bus.
At home she went to her bookshelves and took down a copy of Pascal’s Pensées. She sat by the window, gazing at his words of faith and passion, trying to put on one side the numbness which was like a fog around her, blurring her vision.
That evening, Sheila phoned her. ‘Agnes, it’s about Fyffes Well. I was up at the Ark this afternoon, and this woman came to see us. She was very elderly, and she said she’d come to tell us that she knew it wasn’t us who’d put dye in the spring, because she knew who did it. And she didn’t want to tell the police, but she would if it would help us.’
‘Who was she?’
‘She said she was called Joyce Langdon. And she didn’t want to tell us anymore, but we could count on her support.’
‘How odd. What did she mean?’
‘I’ve no idea. Then she went, and no one really gave it any thought. They’re so preoccupied with the eviction.’
‘How’s Lily?’
‘What, since your little chat with her?’ Sheila said. ‘Actually, she’s a bit strange too. She’s coming to the eviction, she said. I was very surprised. I thought it might be thanks to you.’ Sheila laughed.
‘I didn’t really do much,’ Agnes said.
‘She said she was bringing her boyfriend, and I was to be nice to him.’
‘Ah, that’s it then. A kind of truce; she’ll support you if you support her.’
‘Maybe. I hope he’s OK, this boyfriend.’
‘Well, at least you’ll get to meet him. Although making polite conversation whilst being hauled off a tree by an army of security guards might be tricky.’
Sheila laughed. ‘Well, we’ll find out soon enough. See you.’
Agnes rang off, then dialled Fyffes Well, and Richard Witham picked up the phone.
‘You’re working late,’ she said.
‘I’m not taking any risks.’
‘How’s it going?’
‘The police are keeping an eye. I’ve hired a private security firm as well.’
‘Good.’
‘Agnes — as soon as you find anything out, can you tell me?’
‘I promise. If I find anything out.’
She hung up, her fingers poised over the phone to dial Julius�
��s number. She got up and went to the window. In the lighted telephone box in the street outside she could see the shape of a man. He was dialling a number. Her phone rang. She jumped.
‘Hello?’ she said.
There was silence, then breathing. Still holding the receiver she glanced out of the window again. The man hung up. She heard the line go dead. The man appeared to glance up at her window, then set off down the street. She watched him as he limped to the corner, watched him turn and disappear out of sight.
Chapter Eighteen
Joyce Langdon sounded doubtful.
‘Where did you get my number?’ She spoke in quavery tones of perfect English.
‘From the Essex phone directory,’ Agnes said. ‘After you went to speak to the anti-road camp.’
‘I did so want them to know that I was on their side. Such marvellous young people. But I’ve done all I can. I don’t want to talk to the police about it. And I’m afraid I don’t particularly want to talk to anybody else either.’
‘But Miss Langdon,’ Agnes said, ‘you must. You see, you and I are the only people who know that Emily Quislan is at large; and that Fyffes Well is once again her target.’
*
‘I’ve put the kettle on,’ Joyce said, as she answered the door to Agnes later that morning. ‘It’s not too near lunchtime for coffee, is it?’ She led Agnes through the flagstoned hallway of her cottage to the living-room. ‘Do take a seat, I’ll just sort out the cups,’ she said.
Agnes sat on a wide, old sofa, recently re-covered in fresh chintz. On the little Victorian table there were two issues of Country Life, and on top of them a leather-bound notebook. Agnes picked it up and opened it. The pages were yellowed with age. On the first page someone had written in curly letters, PHYLLIS LANGDON, HER JOURNAL, 1839.
Agnes heard the whistle of a kettle coming from the kitchen. She turned a page.
‘With the new year have I resolved to keep a journal, and this time I am determined to keep my resolve. Emily may tease me all she likes, but my journal shall be kept religiously, not like all the other poor abandoned neglected dear old notebooks that I have locked away from prying eyes, poor half-formed nothings that they are. But now should the world choose to look upon these pages, it shall find me made bold by the happiness we three have found at last …’
There was a clatter of a serving trolley, and Joyce came into the room. Agnes put down the book uncertainly, but Joyce smiled at her. ‘I put that out for you. I decided, after our phone conversation, that I must count you as a friend to Emily and me.’
‘This must be — this is what I’ve needed — I tried St Catherine’s House, you see, but after Charlotte married Robert Kemble I lost the thread, any of those Kembles could have been theirs, any of those Sarahs or Williams —’
‘It was Anna Kemble, born in 1889, she was one of Charlotte’s three children. Anna married Joshua Lees in 1921. She had four children, Peter, Matilda, George and Edward.’ Joyce counted out the names on tapering fingers. ‘In 1947 this George produced a boy called John, and in 1973 John married a Victoria Campbell. They have two children, Joshua and Emma. Emma’s just nineteen, Joshua is seventeen.’ Joyce finished with a restrained smile and clasped her hands together.
Agnes found her voice. ‘How did you find out — and how did you come to have this?’
‘Phyllis Langdon’s brother was my great-great-grandfather.’ Agnes took a large gulp of coffee from the bone china cup that Joyce had handed to her. ‘It was upstairs for years, just one of those things that families hang on to, you know how it is. I first read it in my teens.’
‘And Phyllis and Emily Quislan?’
‘They were eccentric, to say the least. They’d formed this very close friendship at some point in their childhood, and then Emily had a baby boy in her twenties, apparently in secret from her family, and in 1837 they bought the cottage over by Fyffes Well. There seems to have been some kind of trust of which she was the beneficiary, although it was all very odd for those days. She pretended she was raising the child for her brother — she couldn’t have said it was her own. And Phyllis lived with her here, for five or six marvellously happy years, according to the journal. James was enrolled with the local school.’
‘And then what happened?’
‘From what I can gather a family called the Wythams, a big local landowning family, had their eye on the well, for some kind of farming project. And it seems that they got Emily’s brother to testify that the child wasn’t his, but Emily’s own. And the Wythams stirred up local feeling against the two women —’
‘And James became a Hillier?’
‘That’s right, yes, he was taken away from Emily and adopted by the curate here. But at some point he took back his former name, perhaps out of loyalty. The parish register of his marriage is signed Quislan.’
‘And Emily?’
Joyce sighed and folded her hands tightly together in her lap. ‘Phyllis wanted to flee with her and find their happiness elsewhere. Emily wouldn’t leave because of James. In the end Phyllis moved away, not far, but leaving Emily to her fate. And Emily poisoned the well.’
‘Poisoned it?’
‘Yes. Phyllis mentions it much later on, she goes back to writing fragmentary bits. There’s a cryptic entry for that year about wormwood and vengeance.’
‘And did it kill anyone?’
‘Well, no, apparently not.’
‘I’d assumed she blocked it in.’
‘No, that was later. It may be that the whole episode got exaggerated, as she was already out of favour — the witch who rides across moonlit fields to wreak revenge. But whatever the truth of it, the local worthies had the well filled in a couple of years later. Which is why those lower fields have been a swamp for as long as anyone can remember. Until now.’
‘And the witch in Harton’s field?’
‘You’re quite a historian, aren’t you? Emily finally ended her days as an outcast, one of those half-mad muttering women I shouldn’t wonder, and not surprising with her son being taken from her like that, although there’s some evidence they kept in touch. And the Church wouldn’t bury her, so I suppose Harton agreed to have the body or something. After all, he’d benefited from Wytham’s action, he might have felt guilty.’
Agnes sipped her now tepid coffee. ‘Poor Emily.’
Joyce nodded. ‘Poor Emily. And when I met Emma …’
‘You know Emma well?’
‘Yes. I suppose it’s not so odd that John would have chosen me as her tutor, I am rather well thought of —’
‘Hang on, you tutored Emma Lees?’
‘Yes. Last year, when she failed her A-levels. I’m often called upon in that way, since I retired from the Girls’ School.’
‘And you made the connection, between her and Emily?’
‘Oh yes. Not immediately, I have to say, but when I realised who she was I showed her Phyllis’s diary. She was very taken with it all. Not that it helped her with her studies, she failed again. But then she was so distressed, I wasn’t surprised.’
‘What about?’
‘She wouldn’t tell me. At first she was very rude to me, and said I was “on their side”, whatever that meant. After we talked about Phyllis and Emily, she was more friendly. But still wary. I think she was very angry about something.’
Agnes looked at Joyce. ‘Why,’ she began, as her thoughts suddenly came sharply into focus. ‘Why should Emma Lees want to poison Fyffes Well?’
Joyce leant back in her chair. ‘As to that, my dear — I was rather hoping that you might tell me.’
*
‘It’s an extraordinary tale,’ Agnes said, two hours later, sitting in Sheila’s kitchen.
‘It’s amazing that those two women managed to live with their child like that at all —’
‘Well, except they didn’t. Not for long, anyway.’
‘No.’
‘And is she still in touch with Emma Lees?’
Agnes shook her head. ‘The pa
rents split up last year, and both moved nearer to London. All we know is that Emma is lurking around Fyffes Well.’
‘Shall we tell Charlie?’
Agnes frowned. ‘I promised Joyce that I wouldn’t. She feels responsible, in a way. For showing Emma the journal. Although, like her, I’m worried that Emma’s going to do something really dangerous. If she hasn’t already.’ A thought occurred to her. ‘Can we check the computer?’
Upstairs they scrolled through the messages. There was nothing from Emily Quislan.
‘Shall we send her one?’ Sheila asked.
‘Like what? “Emma, don’t do it?” It might panic her into action.’
‘Have you got an e-mail address for her?’
‘Yes.’ Agnes produced her notebook. ‘[email protected].’
‘That’s a company, then. JEL —’
‘Of course. John Lees. Her father. Either he’s in on this scheme too — or,’ Agnes went on, remembering the lone rider, ‘or little Emma is using Daddy’s home computer when he’s not looking. And probably stabling her horse and hiding full Victorian costume somewhere in the grounds of his house too. In fact, if we wanted to track her down now, all we’d have to do is find out where this e-mail address is based.’
‘If we wanted to,’ Sheila said. The two women looked at each other.
‘But we don’t have to,’ Agnes said. ‘After all, the police are already on the case, aren’t they? I mean, even if we did tell Charlie, we’d just be betraying a confidence for no good reason. Wouldn’t we?’
‘Suppose so. Do you think this Joyce Langdon wants to protect Emma?’
‘Yes. I think she does. I think her hunch is that something’s going to resolve itself through all this.’
‘Hmm. I hope it’s worth the risk. I know, how about if we address an e-mail to him? To Daddy, I mean?’
‘And risk her intercepting it? No,’ Agnes said, as an idea occurred to her. ‘I’ve just thought of something better. If there’s time before the eviction.’
‘You’ll be there tomorrow, then?’
‘It seems so. I promised I’d drive Sam up there. Although I have to say, armed combat is not my usual style.’
The Quick and the Dead (A Sister Agnes Mystery) Page 23