To Turn Full Circle

by Linda Mitchelmore

  He handed her a small block of soap. Unused. Pale pink. Emma put it to her nose and it smelled of roses.

  ‘I haven’t got much use for flowery soaps, Emma. Can you imagine the comments of the rest of the crew if I went on board smelling of roses?’

  ‘I certainly can.’ Emma laughed. She opened her carpet bag and added the soap to its meagre contents, along with her mended copy of Persuasion.

  ‘And one thing more,’ Matthew said, smiling at her.

  ‘Oh, I can’t accept anything else, Mr Caunter. You’ve already given me enough.’

  ‘Nothing to eat, drink or make yourself pretty with, Emma. But if you can’t find anywhere else, then I could give you the offer of a bed for the night …’

  ‘I can’t. I …’

  But Matthew put a finger to her lips. ‘You might not have other choices. It’ll be hard for a girl as young as you, and on your own.’ His voice was grave and his look stern. ‘But mind you don’t get into bad ways. Some women …’

  ‘I’m not “some women”. I’m Emma Le Goff.’

  Matthew patted her shoulder. ‘There, there, don’t get on your high horse. It can be a long way down coming off.’

  Then he opened the door and ushered Emma outside. The sun was up now and it was going to be a warm day, she was sure of it. But what she was going to do and where she was going to go she had no idea. However, there was food in her belly and she’d been shown kindness by a stranger.

  ‘Good luck,’ Matthew called out as she reached the gate.

  Emma turned to wave and then she saw her – Mrs Phipps. And the old harridan was grinning, storing up the picture before her no doubt, ready to embellish it and milk the gossip for all it was worth.

  ‘Hmm, like mother like daughter,’ Mrs Phipps said.

  Emma was doing her best to ignore every single thing Mrs Phipps was saying as they walked side by side towards the harbour. Emma was walking as fast as she possibly could, given she’d been so ill for so long, but Mrs Phipps was keeping pace with her easily enough for such a large woman.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Ah, found your voice, have you?’

  ‘I never lost it. I just asked you a question, Mrs Phipps. What do you mean by the reference to my mother?’

  ‘Ah, well, when you were in the school, Rachel Le Goff – for all her fancy name – had visitors. After your pa died, that is.’

  ‘Visitors?’ Her mama had never been one for having the neighbours in for tea and cake and to trade gossip, mainly because she never had much money to spare for such frivolities, but mostly because her mama didn’t say anything bad about anyone, or want to hear it either.

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘What sort of visitors? The doctor’s wife used to pass on her son’s outgrown clothes for Johnnie sometimes. Or maybe …’

  ‘Gentlemen visitors,’ Mrs Phipps said. She had a sneer of a grin on her face, her lips pulled back so that Emma had a full view of a mouthful of rotting teeth. It made her want to retch.

  ‘The vicar then, or the doctor. I’m well aware both called on my mother after Papa was drowned. Now if that’s all you’ve got to say, I’ll be on my way.’

  Emma made to change direction, walk anywhere as long as it was away from Mrs Phipps, but the older woman grabbed at her shawl, pulling it from Emma’s shoulder. ‘It’s not all I’ve got to say. Like I said, it’s a case of like mother like daughter here – you stopping all night with that fisherman up from Slapton.’

  ‘I didn’t have any choice about where I stopped last night, Mrs Phipps. I must have passed out. Mr Caunter threw a blanket over me and let me sleep. On the chair by the fire.’ Behind her back, Emma crossed her fingers that she wouldn’t go to hell for telling a lie. ‘And no one stopped the night with my mama after Papa died, Mrs Phipps. Ever. Understand?’

  ‘Not the night, no. But the daytime was a bit different. Came round the back alley and in the gate, brazen as you like, many a time. I could see ’n from the end of my garden, when I was up the you-know-what, doing my business.’

  Emma took a moment or two to digest this unsavoury information. Yes, Mrs Phipps’ cottage was on the contour above Shingle Cottage and she could easily see down into the Le Goff garden. But she must have made a special effort to do so because to Emma’s knowledge none of the privies in Cliff Terrace had windows.

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘Mr Reuben Jago. And sometimes his son, Carter. Walked up the path bold as brass they did.’

  Just the sound of Reuben Jago’s name made Emma’s bile rise – it felt sharp as vinegar in her throat. And Mrs Phipps was suggesting there was something untoward about him calling on her mother, wasn’t she? And Carter Jago, too.

  ‘I’ve been told my mama was a bit behind with the rent after my papa died,’ Emma said softly. She was almost too ashamed to say the words. But if it would defend her mother’s reputation then she’d say them. ‘I expect Mr Jago called to ask for it, that’s all. And sent his son to ask when he couldn’t call himself.’

  ‘Oh yes? And how do you think your mama paid it off? Weren’t with pence and pounds, were it? Unless it were the pounds of her body …’

  ‘You … you … foul-mouthed, bitter old woman,’ Emma yelled. She didn’t care who heard her. ‘And you’re a liar with it.’

  She snatched at the catch of her carpet bag and thrust her hand in, searching out the bar of soap Matthew Caunter had just given her. ‘Here, take this. Wash your filthy mouth out.’

  She threw it at Mrs Phipps, then turned on her heel and ran. She skirted round people she knew, who averted their eyes when they saw her coming. The heels of her shoes clacked on the cobbles outside the homes of school friends where once she would have been welcome, but now as she passed she saw curtains hastily pulled across and doors closed at her approach. Why? Why? What had she done that was making people turn against her so?

  Wasn’t there anyone who would take her in? The vicar? Dr Shaw, perhaps? Just until she could find a job of work and preferably one that provided a bed to sleep in, too.

  Her mama had always been adamant that no daughter of hers was going to go into service and that was why she’d been saving for Emma’s teacher-training, taking in sewing jobs to make a bit extra. Pin money, quite literally, her mama had always said, laughing as she said it. But perhaps going into service was going to be Emma’s only way to survive. It would be her last resort, though – there had to be something else she could do. Emma’s head throbbed with thinking about it all, and her calves ached from hurrying faster than her body was ready for yet.

  She would call on Dr Shaw. Perhaps he’d have a position for her in his own house. Or in the surgery on the reception desk – yes, that would be a better job. She could learn to do that easily enough, couldn’t she? There was a shortcut – an alley between two inns; it was steep but it would save her a longer walk round and up the hill. Emma slowed her pace and slipped into the alley. It was darker between the high walls but not so dark she couldn’t see the shape of a person lying on the ground. A woman. To turn around and go back and pretend she hadn’t noticed, or to go on and see if the woman was all right?

  Emma knew what she had to do. She crept forward, a slow step at a time. She recognised the flame red hair. Sophie Ellison. Sophie had been in the year above Emma at school. Had got in with a bad crowd. But she’d been at the funeral for her mama and Johnnie, and Emma would always be grateful to her for that.

  The hem of Sophie’s skirt was pulled up, twisted round, over the top of her thighs. Her legs had a bluish tinge, and Emma shivered looking at them. She leaned down and tried to pull Sophie’s skirt down to cover her legs, give her some decency here in this alley that smelled of stale beer and urine and fish.

  Then she crouched down beside the curled form of Sophie. Was she drunk? ‘Sophie?
’ Emma said. ‘It’s me, Emma Le Goff. Are you hurt?’ She touched the back of Sophie’s hand. It was cold. Like alabaster.

  ‘Sophie, speak to me,’ Emma said, frightened now. ‘Please, speak to me.’

  And then she noticed the blood – a burgundy pool of it under Sophie’s chest already beginning to congeal – and Emma knew that Sophie was never going to speak to her again because Sophie was dead.

  ‘’Morning, Seth,’ Mrs Phipps said.

  Seth puffed out his cheeks, let the air escape slowly. The last person he wanted to see. She was forever offering him the services of her over-large and probably under-washed body.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Phipps.’ Seth made to hurry past. He was on his way to the harbour, but was late – held up by his father asking if he’d come to his senses yet over Emma. In Seth’s opinion he’d never lost his senses. He rubbed his eyes, dry and itchy through lack of sleep, thinking about Emma and how he might help her.

  ‘Not so fast.’ Mrs Phipps grabbed his forearm. ‘You can spare me a few minutes.’

  ‘Not for what you’re about to suggest.’

  Mrs Phipps cackled. ‘Got to get rid of that ol’ virginity of yours some time. Might as well be with someone who can learn you a thing or two. But that’s not what I’m meaning.’ She leaned in to whisper. ‘Your pa done right throwing Emma Le Goff out of Shingle Cottage. ’Cept from what I saw, she’s got herself back in. Only spent the night there with the new tenant, didn’t she? Looked all cosy on the doorstep they did earlier. Presents and all going in that bag of hers.’

  Seth made a tight line of his lips. Anger was boiling in him, making his heart beat faster. He didn’t know which was the worst of the evils – Mrs Phipps for spreading gossip, or Emma for spending the night with his pa’s new crewman, or himself for believing any of it.

  ‘I hesitate to call you a liar, Mrs Phipps …’

  ‘I ain’t no liar. Saw her with me own eyes, did’n I? Right little harlot she is.’

  ‘You’re a right one to be calling anyone a harlot, Mrs Phipps,’ Seth hissed.

  ‘You’d not be likely to know, would yer? Seeing as you’m not like your brothers and are as pure as the good Lord made yer …’

  ‘Out of my way,’ Seth said. ‘Or my pa’s boats will miss the tide.’ Then he pushed her hand away from his arm as though it were fire, and turned on his heel and left.

  Had his pa been right when he’d said it would be best if Seth forgot all about Emma? Had he? But where else could Emma have gone for the night? Mrs Drew had had no space, and from what he’d heard, she’d been shunned by old friends who believed Rachel Goff had been a suicide. It had been a cold night and Seth shivered, thinking Emma might have fallen asleep from fatigue and hunger under a hedge somewhere and died of the cold.

  He hurried on. If he had to keep seeing Emma he’d never be able to stop thinking about her, or be able to avoid hearing all sorts of tales – true or not – about her. His Uncle Silas fished out of Vancouver on the west coast of Canada – it wouldn’t hurt to write and ask if his offer of a job running the shipping office for him still stood, although he’d like to get the truth about what had really happened to his ma and that fall down the cellar steps before he made a firm decision to go.

  But he had a feeling even Canada wouldn’t be far enough to forget the lovely Emma.

  Chapter Four

  ‘Dr Shaw! Dr Shaw!’ Emma yelled, but the yelling made her cough. She turned the huge brass door knob and stumbled into the doctor’s waiting room. Three surprised patients stared at her. No glared – but Emma had no time to challenge them about that now. She ran on and banged on the surgery door.

  ‘Dr Shaw. Open up. You’ve got to come.’

  Behind her she heard someone say, ‘Get that trollop out of here. Taints the place.’

  Emma turned and recognised Mrs Phipps’ next-door neighbour. What lies had she been spreading about her?

  And then someone else said, ‘Wouldn’t want the good doctor touching me after he’s touched her.’

  And then the door opened and a startled Dr Shaw said, ‘Emma? Whatever is the matter, child?’

  ‘You’ve got to come, Doctor,’ Emma said, ‘you’ve got to. It’s Sophie Ellison. She’s … she’s hurt bad. Down the alley.’

  ‘Hurt? In what way? There’s lots of drinking …’

  ‘Blood, Doctor. There’s lots of blood. And she isn’t moving. I don’t think she’s …’ Emma couldn’t say the word ‘breathing’. And that she was certain Sophie was dead.

  ‘Did you touch her?’

  ‘No. Well, yes. But only her hand. It felt colder than marble, Doctor.’

  ‘And did she speak to you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then we’re wasting time. I’ll get my bag. Wait here.’

  So Emma waited, no more than a few seconds but it felt like years as the waiting patients tutted and whispered to one another behind their hands. About her no doubt, but Emma couldn’t care.

  Dr Shaw closed his surgery door behind him, placed his free hand under Emma’s elbow and guided her towards the front door.

  ‘Well, if that’s the lie of the land, there’s more than one doctor in this town so I’ll be seeing Dr Green from now on,’ someone said as they walked past.

  ‘Standards are definitely dropping if the likes of her can come in here and jump the queue.’ Another person joined the debate.

  ‘Do as you think fit,’ the doctor called out. ‘All of you. At the moment Emma’s case is more pressing. Come, Emma, lead the way.’

  He smiled kindly at Emma and his smile brought tears to her eyes. She had someone on her side.

  Emma sat, shivering inside a blanket Dr Shaw’s wife had placed around her shoulders, her chair pulled up close to the range in the kitchen. Florrie, the doctor’s maid, handed Emma a mug of steaming cocoa. ‘Get that down you, girl,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you.’ Emma took the mug, clasping her hands around it for warmth.

  She knew she shouldn’t have looked as the doctor turned Sophie Ellison over, but she hadn’t been able to stop herself. There had been a huge, open wound where Sophie’s heart was, her clothes ripped from her so that Emma had been able to see the white mounds of her breasts bared to the world. The doctor had removed his jacket and placed it carefully over Sophie, covering her wound and her nakedness and her face.

  And now she was in shock from the sight of it. Dr Shaw had banged on the back door of the inn and asked for someone to go for the constable and the undertaker. When they arrived, Emma had stood with hands over her eyes, not wanting to see Sophie Ellison being heaved about like a sheep’s carcass onto a wooden trolley. She’d answered the constable’s questions as best she could, her head aching with the pressure of having to remember every little detail. Then Dr Shaw said that Emma needed treatment herself so she’d better come back to the house with him. He’d given her brandy and checked her pulse and her breathing and listened to her heart and said she could stop in his kitchen until she felt stronger. Emma wondered if she could delay feeling stronger until the morning at least because it was warm in the kitchen. And she could smell meat being cooked, and there was a pan of potatoes all peeled and ready to be put to the heat.

  ‘You saw it all, Emma,’ Florrie said, with something like awe in her voice. ‘Was she murdered?’

  ‘Yes,’ Emma said, still shivering. She didn’t want to talk about it really. Sophie had been murdered and the murderer could still be around somewhere.

  ‘Were her eyes open? My brother saw a dead man once and his eyes were open. Staring they were …’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

  Sophie’s eyes had been open, and Emma didn’t think she’d ever be able to forget the terror in those eyes. And Sophie had smelled of drink when the doctor had turned her over. Stank of it. Beer
and stronger things, like brandy. If there was a lesson never to go down bad roads then the state of Sophie Ellison had been that lesson.

  ‘Oh, go on,’ Florrie said. ‘I won’t tell.’

  ‘There’s not a lot to tell,’ Emma said. ‘Sophie’s dead and the constable is looking for who did it.’

  ‘Hah. He’ll be on a boat already and gone, that’s for sure. There was a coal barge in earlier from Wales. Like little ferrets the Welsh are, their tongues never still and their hands neither once they’ve had a drink or two.’

  ‘The murderer could have been a her,’ Emma said.

  Florrie cackled raucously. ‘You’re a rum ’un, Emma Le Goff, with your fancy name and your fancy ideas. Whoever heard of a woman murdering anyone? Bound to have been a man. Someone she didn’t want to offer her favours to, I ’spect.’

  Emma shrugged. Let Florrie have her theories, but in a way she hoped the girl was right and the murderer was on his way. Because soon she would have to leave the warmth of this kitchen and the safety of this house. She’d asked the doctor if he knew anyone who could give her a job – in a shop, or a boarding house, or a hotel – but he’d said he didn’t know of anyone needing help right now. Although he did say once he’d seen to his afternoon patients he’d give it some thought.

  And then, as though just thinking of him had summoned his presence, Dr Shaw came into the kitchen. ‘And how are you feeling now, Emma?’ he asked kindly. ‘Wrist, please.’

  Emma slid an arm out from under the blanket and held it out for him to take her pulse. ‘I feel a bit better, Doctor,’ she said. ‘But not a lot.’ She tried not to let her gaze rest on the pan of potatoes but it did. And by the way the doctor smiled at her she knew he was reading her thoughts.

  ‘Hmm,’ he said. He put the ear pieces of his stethoscope to his ears. ‘Florrie, leave us for a moment, will you?’