At last they turn left into Walcot Gate, where the air becomes cooler and more peaceful. The burial ground looms before them, its walls interspersed with black iron railings. Bald, ossified trees screen the view of the graves. Agnes tightens her grip upon Simon’s arm.
‘I have you,’ he says.
It feels as though it is an imposter who enters through the gates and passes by the mortuary chapel. Surely Agnes would not be brave enough to countenance the lichen-grazed headstones that slope towards the river? Yet somehow she does; just as she stood before Mr Meers’s terrible face without fainting. Perhaps this whole ordeal will end up changing her for the better.
The burial ground is shady, even though the trees have lost their leaves. There is a hush that feels gentle and kind. Gazing to the horizon, beyond the river that frightens her, she sees the roll of green hills.
There are no mawkish angel statues here. Simon leads her across some grass and down a line of identical markers constructed of grey stone. She does not read the simple engravings; does not want to know whose bones lie under her feet.
He stops before a headstone that is raw and unmarked by the weather. At its base, bare earth makes a mound four feet long.
Simon removes his hat.
So this is Pearl. Her last home looks pitifully small and narrow.
Agnes bends down and places the pansies she has brought with her carefully upon the soil. It occurs to her now that they were Constance’s favourite flower.
‘God rest you, sweet Pearl,’ she whispers. ‘Sleep tight.’
Her eyes skim the stone.
Pearl Meers
22 June 1843–3 December 1854
Her mind has a momentary blank. She wobbles, disorientated. Simon’s arm slips around her waist.
‘I am well,’ she insists, ‘I am …’
Something troubles her; a general unease she cannot put her finger upon. But why should the dates upset her?
‘I thought this was a peaceful spot.’ Simon speaks as softly as the wind that moves between the graves. ‘At dusk, the shadow of the chapel falls across it and it is most … serene.’
A blackbird sings. Agnes glances around. The place is pretty, with the church gazing down over them from above, and the river slipping effortlessly by. She thinks of little Pearl being shut away in the dark for so long, and how pleasant the girl would find this hillside with its shade and its foliage, and the city that she never managed to see spread out before her like a picture.
Her head begins to clear. ‘It is perfect, Simon. You chose well.’
They stand for a long time, staring out into the distance. Simon does not remove his arm from her waist. From the corner of her eye, she notices him watching her tenderly. It is comfortable.
They observe a grey-haired couple and their adult daughter tending a grave. They are the only other mourners, which surprises her, given the crowded nature of the cemetery and the season.
Simon inhales deeply beside her. ‘I must perform the duty of visiting another while I am here. Do you find yourself able to accompany me?’
It takes her a second to realise who he means. Constance is buried here, her grave woefully neglected.
‘I … Yes. Yes, I will go with you, Simon.’
She turns to him, and sees that he has tears in his eyes. She never thought to see him weep for his wife.
He coaxes her hand into the crook of his arm. Slowly, they descend the slope, drawing ever closer to the river. A drake plunges his emerald head beneath the water in search of food. She can smell wet dirt and weeds.
‘Just a little further,’ he urges as she hangs back.
Wind soughs through the naked tree branches. The family of mourners turn and make as if to leave. Agnes wishes they would not. There is a safety in numbers.
Here, the headstones speak of wealth and respectability. They are clean and sturdy, and the engravings are more ornate. Most are white or pale grey in colour, but Simon comes to a halt before a marker made of black marble.
Constance Edith Carfax
18th October 1810–23rd September 1840
Respice Finem
Dark spots cloud her vision. This is worse than seeing Constance’s shade appear at the séance. All her sister’s complexity has been reduced to a collection of stern, unforgiving words.
When Constance died, Agnes vowed never to give her another thought, yet she has always been there, concealed, like an organ that cannot be removed. She remembers Miss West’s description of sisterhood, and it is true: she feels love and hate, blended together. It is impossible to distinguish where one ends and the other begins.
Constance was controlling, and vicious, and grasping, yes. But her sole desire in life was to be with Agnes, always. In the grand scheme of things, in comparison with the abuse Pearl faced, that does not seem so very bad. For all her violent outbursts, Constance never once injured Agnes. Would never have poisoned her with matchsticks. In her own way, she loved her.
Maybe Agnes should have spoken to the shadow when it arose. If she had offered forgiveness then, it might have finally put Constance to rest.
‘I should have thought,’ she starts, but her voice croaks out. She swallows, tries again. ‘I should have … brought more pansies.’
Somewhere, a bird calls.
Simon’s eyes seem to peel beneath her skin. ‘Look, Miss Darken,’ he says, and it is a voice she has never heard him use before. ‘Look closely. See … beside her.’
There are three slabs of black marble, she realises. They stand out like the sharps and flats on a piano, but they are in a line, clumped together.
Cedric Matthew Carfax
Agatha Darken
Shock holds her immobile.
Simon grips her arm. All she can think is that this is some kind of joke, a monstrous joke, but the names are carved … indelible.
‘No. No, it cannot be.’ Simon does not speak. ‘You promised me. You told me that you knew where Cedric …’
Her legs give way.
Simon kneels with her. She feels his arm encircle her shoulders; inhales the aroma of carbolic soap.
‘Who could … I don’t … Was it Miss West? Did she kill them? How? When?’
‘The dates.’ Simon crafts his words with care. ‘Please, Miss Darken. Observe the dates.’
Her eyes skate wildly over the shining black marble.
‘I cannot …’
Simon waves a bottle of salts beneath her nose and then everything comes into terrible focus.
The date of death for all three is the same:
23rd September 1840
‘They have been dead these fourteen years,’ he breathes.
Memories crackle at the corners of her mind. Although the ground is firm beneath her knees, she feels herself being dragged down.
Simon reaches out and strokes her cheek. ‘Come, Miss Darken. You do recall what happened that day.’
It had been a trip of mortification. Everyone knew about the matrimonial fracas, from the bucks who turned their heads to watch them walk past, to the shop girls who sneered while they smiled. Whispers had followed the sisters like a cloud of flies. Agnes held herself tight and small, praying that no one would call out after them, but Constance had shown no embarrassment. If anything, she seemed to relish the attention.
Returning to the carriage provided no comfort. The day was unseasonably cold, which made the horses skittish. Dozens of parcels jolted against Agnes’s legs while she tried her best to sit back from the window and the stares that raked through it.
Of course the horses were Constance’s fault, too. She had insisted upon high-spirited beasts with an Arabian arch to their necks, delicate mouths and rolling eyes, ignoring the fact that they were unsuited to team a carriage.
The vehicle itself was ill-sprung, creaky and second-hand, yet Constance seemed determined to run it in the manner of a born lady, rather than a separated wife who should be comporting herself with discretion.
She wanted people to see her.
Wanted to shame Simon as much as she could.
She was going about it the right way. Today’s purchases alone would nearly ruin him. The latest and most extravagant was a swansdown tippet that looped around her throat and fell to the hem of her dusky rose dress. It had cost more than Agnes could earn in a month.
And was Constance satisfied, now? As always, it was impossible to tell. She sat composed with her hands folded on her lap, gazing out of the window as though she had nothing to be ashamed of.
Agnes wanted to pick up the nearest hat box and hurl it at her.
‘I shall write to Miss Werrett and cancel that order,’ Agnes threatened. ‘I have no desire to wear matching gowns. The whole conceit strikes me as terribly affected.’
Constance offered no response. The horses skittered to the left, but she did not lose her balance. Agnes had to reach for the leather strap to brace herself.
‘Do you hear me, Constance? I will not wear it.’
‘Then I wonder,’ Constance observed coolly, ‘that you did not say so at the shop.’
‘It was humiliating enough, with those gossiping widows peering at us. I did not want to cause a scene.’
Constance continued looking out of the window. ‘No. You did not.’
How could she be so maddening? One would think her the picture of innocence sitting there in pink and white with a spray of flowers tucked behind her ear.
‘I will write,’ Agnes repeated.
‘Then you must suffer the consequences.’
Anger flared, hot and impotent inside her chest. What would Constance do to punish her refusal to fall in line this time? Slash her other gowns? Take away Cedric’s books again? ‘Be reasonable,’ she pleaded. ‘I know you wish to make me a gift of the gown, but I do not need it. How am I to face Simon this afternoon? Do you not consider that he must still pay your debts – even the ones you run up in presents for me?’
‘Of course I consider it. I want him to pay.’
He could not afford to, Agnes was certain. His patients were numerous and wealthy, but not enough to justify the horses and their livery at Carter’s, nor the many gowns, bonnets and necklaces Constance kept frittering away his money upon. Yet he would never refuse to honour a debt. An informal separation was one matter – the idea of divorce did not bear thinking about.
The horses spurted forward, eager to canter, while the coachman attempted to hold them at a trot. Agnes wished he would give them their heads. The sooner they were back at Orange Grove the better; Constance would alight with her infernal boxes and Simon, who was currently visiting Cedric, would take her place in the carriage.
Not that they would enjoy the pleasant afternoon tea she had envisaged. The whole time would be spent warning him of the bills to come. She and Simon never seemed to have anything except difficult conversations, these days. She remembered how they used to laugh together, and play with Cedric as a baby, but now a strain had been put on their friendship.
No doubt that was what Constance wanted.
Constance had taken Montague, she had taken Simon, and she had ruined them both.
‘I wish you would leave Simon alone,’ Agnes complained. ‘He is a good man! He has given you everything: respectability, a name for your child and an income. I know he was always my friend, and you never warmed to him, but you are not even forced to endure his company now. What can you possibly hold against him?’
Constance’s lips curved in a slow smile.
They were nearing home. Agnes knew her time was running short.
‘Answer me, Constance. I will not let you leave this vehicle without you promising to be kinder to your husband.’
Constance breathed a laugh. ‘Oh! You dear innocent. You know nothing about marriage!’
‘And whose fault is that?’
The carriage jerked ungracefully to a stop. Constance leant forward to open the door; she never waited for the coachman to lower the steps. It was just as well, for he was cursing on the box as he struggled to hold the horses in check.
A cloud of jessamine scent engulfed Agnes as Constance climbed down. With one foot on the street, she fixed Agnes with a last, glacial look.
‘Stop thinking about Simon all the time. He is not worth your consideration. No man is. You belong with me, sister. Do not forget it.’
Agnes slammed the door on her.
Just as she intended, the hem of Constance’s ashy pink gown and one end of her tippet were trapped inside the carriage. They would be marked, ruined.
She heard a faint, strangled cry as Constance tried to walk away and was pulled back.
That would teach her a lesson, she thought.
Then everything happened at once.
There was a rolling, a rushing noise, and she heard Cedric calling her name. ‘Auntie Aggie! Look what my father bought me!’
A horse reared, shrieking. The squabs slammed hard into her legs as she was jolted forward without warning, too late to grab the leather strap.
The world turned upside down as the carriage careered out of control. A box hit her in the head, another just beneath the ribs. She fought like a drowning woman reaching for the surface, but she could not tell which direction was up.
Blood filled her mouth.
Suddenly, they hit a bump. Agnes flew up in the air, screaming, and her scream seemed to be echoed outside. There was a sickening crunch as the wheels mounted and crushed whatever lay in their path.
Ribbons and gloves burst from their folds of tissue paper; boxes flew at her head like a flock of birds. She knew she was badly injured but could not tell where. Everything hurt; everything moved.
Clawing for purchase with her torn fingernails, she managed to snag something soft and silken. It was pink. Ashes of roses.
Constance’s gown.
Bang.
A heavy weight crashed against the door and she realised Constance was still there, being dragged along with her.
She cried out for her sister, but there was no response except for the banging. She thought of the tippet, pulled taut around Constance’s throat like a noose, and she began to choke. It could not be happening. None of this could be real.
Another object smacked her on the temple. Pinpricks danced before her eyes. She could hear screaming, endless screaming, and she yearned for it to stop …
All at once, it did.
There was a deafening crack. For a moment she felt weightless, free; and in the next her body smashed against what must have been the door.
She did not hear a splash; only glass fracturing beneath her. Ice-cold, turbid water gushed in around her legs.
‘Constance!’ she cried. ‘Constance, are you still there?’
Then everything turned to black.
CHAPTER 37
After a long struggle, Agnes has reached a plateau. For the first time since her pneumonia, time does not pass in fits and starts; rather, it has become a paddle steamer that drifts gently, carrying her with it. Or perhaps that is Simon’s medicine.
Her world has fallen apart, but it seems to go on perfectly well around her. Simon’s charwoman, Mrs Muckle, departs for Gloucester, where she means to stay until Twelfth Night. Miss West is prevailed upon to confess, and she does it with aplomb: admitting not just to the murders of Mr Meers and Pearl, but to those of Mr Boyle, Ned and even Commander Hargreaves, despite the lack of evidence tying her to the crimes. She has the fame, if not the freedom, she always desired.
No one dubs her the Mesmerising Murderess.
The only transgression Miss West is not denounced for is the abduction of Cedric, for Cedric was never there to kidnap; he was trampled beneath the hooves of the horses fourteen years ago. It was the brandishing of his new hoop and stick that caused them to bolt.
Agnes tries to accept this, tries to understand that her recent memories of the boy are entirely false. But sometimes she could swear she hears the click, click of his toy rolling down the street at night. Or perhaps it is the sound of a ghostly carriage, wheeling Constance to h
er doom over and over again.
‘Am I quite mad, Simon?’ she asks, as he sits up with her by the light of a single candle. ‘Have I lost my mind entirely?’
He is always emphatic. ‘No. You knew about their deaths and accepted them for over a decade. It was only the pneumonia of ’52 that … unsteadied you. You were so very ill, Miss Darken. Near to death. I had half-steeled myself to lose you …’ He breaks off, recovers himself. ‘When you were past the danger, you seemed to … reset, somehow. You saw them. And you were so weak, I did not dare to retard your progress by breaking your heart all over again.’
She surveys Constance’s bedroom. The red and yellow quatrefoil paper that her sister chose still hangs from the walls. Her four-poster bed remains, without curtains, as was her preference. The mahogany dressing table and mirror stand just as she left them. It seems Agnes is not the only person who has been afraid to confront the past.
But she does face it, in stages.
Simon pays the subscription for them to drink water from the Hetling Pump. It is still within sight of the abbey, but at least it is a little further away from her house at Orange Grove than the Grand Pump Room. She could not bear to be in such close proximity to the scene of the Accident – not yet.
She sips the tepid, mineral-tasting liquid, trying to make her peace with that element. The memory of the river rushing into the carriage, seeking to engulf her, is now painfully clear. It might not have succeeded in taking her life, but it certainly swept her old self away.
‘Tell me, Simon,’ she says quietly as they promenade the room arm in arm. ‘What happened to Mamma? I do not recall that.’
There are ladies like Mamma here: stout and red in the face with slightly protruding eyes. They gossip, obliviously blocking the path of the wheelchairs. Old men lean on crutches for their gouty legs; someone complains of feeling bilious.
Simon hangs his head. ‘Your mother … saw everything. From the window in the parlour. She saw Cedric … The shock was too great for her heart.’
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