To Turn Full Circle

by Linda Mitchelmore

  It was a long climb up the narrow streets until she got to Nase Head House. She had to stop to get her breath back many times. But she was sure the sun was doing her good. It made her feel better anyway, just being out in it.

  Mrs Drew had been right. The builders had been busy. Paintwork gleamed and windows sparkled. Flower borders had been dug around the edges of what Emma remembered had only ever been a lawn before, and plants had been placed at regular intervals, some in flower, some about to be. How pretty it all looked. Imagine having enough money to spend on frivolities like flowers. The only time Emma had ever seen flowers in Shingle Cottage had been when her mama had picked wild ones. And the ones the florist had delivered for her papa’s funeral, paid for after a collection by the neighbours.

  A pair of wrought-iron gates were open so Emma walked in, made her way along the drive that led to the front door. She bent to touch the petals of a red flower she didn’t know the name of.

  ‘Oi! What’re you doing, girl?’

  Emma jumped to a standing position, turned round. The sudden action made her giddy for a moment. A gardener with a hoe in his hand was glaring at her.

  ‘I’m admiring the flowers,’ she said. ‘You must have worked hard to transform this place.’

  ‘I have an’ all that,’ the gardener said, and Emma was relieved to see that her soft words had brought a smile to the man’s face.

  ‘I’m thinking of working here myself,’ Emma said. ‘Who do I see?’

  The gardener raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Mr Rupert Smythe. Not that it’ll be any use you seeing ’im. All the inside staff’s bin brought down from London. An’ a right po-faced lot they are an’ all.’

  Emma laughed. ‘You don’t think I’m po-faced, then?’

  ‘Stop fishing for compliments.’

  The word ‘fishing’ brought Emma up short. Would she ever get used to hearing it and not instantly thinking of her papa and how he’d lost his life fishing? ‘I’m not,’ she said. ‘Up those steps over there to the front door, is it?’

  ‘Yes. An’ don’t forget to wipe your boots.’

  ‘I won’t,’ Emma said, and scuttled away.

  Emma counted the steps. Eleven of them. They made the double oak doors seem more imposing somehow. One door was slightly open so Emma peeped around it. Now she was here nerves had overtaken her bravado.

  And then it was as though she were being pulled by an invisible thread. She inched around the edge of the door, slipped inside. She was in an octagonal reception area with a tiled floor. Black and white. Not the black-and-white rigid lines of the Jago house, but black and white in a pattern – some of the tiles cut diamond-shaped, some circular. Emma stretched out the toe of one of her newly acquired, hand-me-down boots and traced the pattern directly in front of her. Her toe glided easily across the surface. She imagined how it would feel to wear shoes with heels like her mama had worn to church on Sundays. Shoes with a little strap across the instep and a pearl button on the side.

  No one seemed to be about so Emma crossed the floor, the heels of her boots clicking noisily. Someone would hear her in a minute. But before they did she’d have a good look around.

  Beattie Drew had been right. There were chandeliers. Two of them hanging from the ceiling, long droppers of crystal like stalagtites. And lit by electricity. She could see the round switches on the walls, and wires. Emma gazed in awe at the chandeliers, first one then the other, until her neck ached.

  There was a central, circular, seat that Emma guessed could accommodate at least a dozen people. She walked forward and ran a hand across the seat. Leather. Red leather – red the colour of hawthorn berries.

  There was a wooden desk against one wall and it had a bell on it. Please ring was written on a card in a fancy script.

  Emma rang.

  The sound echoed around the cavernous reception area. But it seemed ages before anyone came to see who might be ringing the bell and there seemed to be a whole meadow of butterflies fluttering in Emma’s stomach as she waited.

  ‘And you might be?’

  Emma looked up. A man was standing at the top of one of the two staircases, a hand on the rail, staring down at her. ‘Emma Le Goff. I’ve come about a position. Here. If you have one, which I hope you will have. Please.’

  Emma’s heart rate had increased rapidly now. She could feel her pulse in her neck. She just had to be here – work her way up until it was her standing behind that desk answering the ring of the bell.

  The man walked slowly down the stairs towards her. ‘Have you now?’ he said. ‘You’ve come to the right man. I’m Rupert Smythe.’

  Emma readied to shake his hand, but no hand was offered. ‘This is a beautiful place,’ she said. ‘I would like a job if you have one. Preferably living in.’

  ‘Living in?’ Mr Smythe said.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘And how old are you, Miss Le Goff?’

  Miss Le Goff? No one had ever called her that before, except Matthew earlier, and her guess was that he’d been formal and not called her Emma so Mr Jago wouldn’t know they’d already met. Hearing Mr Smythe say it made her feel older somehow. She pulled herself up taller, looked Mr Smythe in the eye. ‘I’ll be sixteen soon. At Michaelmas.’

  ‘You look younger.’

  To tell him she’d been ill, or not? He might not want someone who wasn’t strong enough to hold down a job. ‘If that’s a compliment then I thank you kindly,’ Emma said.

  Mr Smythe laughed. Laughing at her, Emma thought. He had blue eyes – like a winter sky on a sunny day. Rather cold. But he did hold the key to her future – Emma was sure of it. She smiled back at him, willing the smile to reach her eyes. But she had a feeling it fell far short of that.

  ‘You’re bright enough, Miss Le Goff, I can see that. Pretty, too. But I’ve got all the staff I need for the moment. You could ask again in, say, six months. But I must point out girls have to be well dressed to work for me, do you understand?’

  ‘I do. But this is all I’ve got for the moment.’

  Emma glanced down over the skirt that Mrs Phipps had given her. Glanced at the boots that had once been the doctor’s daughter’s. Those boots pinched a bit even though they did still have all their buttons. The clothes the doctor’s wife had given her were good quality but a bit too tight across the bust. She wished with all her heart now she’d taken the time to let the darts out before coming here.

  Mr Smythe began to walk away. He reached a door, opened it, and Emma could see lots of tables covered in white linen cloths.

  She’d been dismissed, hadn’t she?

  ‘I hope to get better things before too long, Mr Smythe,’ she called after him.

  But he ignored her.

  Emma lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘And when I do, I’ll be back. You just watch if I don’t.’

  Seth looked up from checking the sails and ropes as his father approached with the new crewman, Matthew Caunter. So, that’s what he looked like – long, pale, gingery sort of hair tied back with a shoelace. Tall. Older than Seth had expected him to be. Certainly too old for Emma in his opinion. Seth felt a stab of something that could only be jealousy pierce him between the breastbones.

  ‘Caunter will be in Carter’s crew today, Seth. Make sure everything’s in order.’

  ‘I always do, Pa.’

  ‘This is your son?’ Matthew said, sounding surprised – as though he had expected an introduction.

  ‘The youngest.’

  ‘And are you joining us on this boat, Seth, or are you skippering one of your father’s other boats?’

  ‘Ha!’ Reuben said, before Seth got a chance to speak. ‘Put to sea? Him? Gets sicker than a babe on pork fat, he does. Legs like a girl’s for the water.’

  There was an uncomfortable silence between the three me
n for a few moments. Seth moved a crab pot from one place to another, quite unnecessarily, just for something to do.

  ‘So, if you don’t put to sea what do you do, Seth?’

  ‘Make and mend the crab and lobster pots. Load them. Do repairs on Pa’s boats. Always something to do in that line.’

  ‘And will you be here to unload when the boats get back?’

  ‘No,’ Seth said. ‘My brothers do that.’

  ‘Is that so, Mr Jago?’ Matthew asked, turning to Reuben.

  Reuben nodded. ‘Seth might fall short as a son in many ways but he doesn’t lie.’

  And Seth knew why he used those words – fall short as a son. Carter and Miles would do everything their father told them to do, however illegal – contraband goods, or over-fishing. Although Seth was yet to find any hard evidence of it, he knew in his bones it was going on. And if he found that hard evidence then he’d go to the authorities – father or not. And his pa knew it which was why, Seth suspected, his pa and brothers were careful to keep underhand dealings well-hidden from him. Certainly, there weren’t piles of brandy or other goods hidden at Hilltop House as far as he’d been able to see, although there was often a bottle of brandy in the kitchen for culinary purposes. But if there were …

  ‘Enough talk,’ Reuben Jago snapped. ‘Or we’ll miss the tide.’

  ‘I’ll double-check the sails, Pa, first.’

  ‘Then be quick about it.’

  Seth turned to the task.

  ‘So, how well do you know the Le Goff girl?’ Seth heard his father ask Matthew.

  ‘Probably rather less than you do,’ Matthew replied.

  Seth’s pa laughed raucously.

  Seth wanted to retch. Had his Pa laid his filthy paws on Emma? Was that what Matthew Caunter was implying?

  ‘I get your meaning. But if you think you can hide anything from me – anything at all – think again, Caunter. I’ve got my spies everywhere.’ He tapped the side of his nose in a knowing way.

  ‘Is that so?’ Caunter said. He bent to stow his kit bag under a plank.

  ‘Stopped the night with you, so I understand?’ Seth’s pa obviously wasn’t going to let the issue of Emma stopping the night at Shingle Cottage go. ‘All cosied up. Tight …’

  Caunter put up a hand. ‘I did offer Miss Le Goff refuge, yes. And no doubt Mrs, er, Phipps, isn’t it? has spread some gossip. But as I’m sure you’ll know, Sir, a gentleman never talks about the women he goes with.’

  Caunter straightened, pulled himself to his full height. He towered over Seth’s pa.

  ‘As you wish. But we’ll get one thing straight – if Emma Le Goff shares your bed again …’

  ‘She did not share my bed. Or I, hers.’

  Seth had heard enough. Feeling sick right through that this stranger had been able to offer Emma refuge when he hadn’t been, he abandoned the double-checking of the sails and left.

  Chapter Six

  Hugging the precious bundles that Matthew Caunter had given her closely against her chest, Emma scurried through the fish market. She’d loved the smell of fish once, but didn’t care much for it now.

  Her mama had had a way of cooking scallops with herbs picked from the garden, and cream fresh from the dairy that tasted as close to heaven as Emma thought she would get without actually being there, and Emma had learned to cook it well enough herself.

  ‘Emma!’

  Emma slowed. It was Florrie. Dr Shaw’s maid. No doubt she wanted more gory details about Sophie Ellison’s body. Details Emma didn’t want to give. The sooner she could put the whole tragic scenario out of her mind the better.

  ‘Emma, you’ve got to get back. The constable is looking for you. He …’ Florrie skidded to a halt, bent over and grasped her side to stop a stitch.

  ‘The constable? What does he want me for?’

  Florrie gulped in air. Stood up. ‘I don’t know, do I? All I’m saying is he came to Dr Shaw and they were in the study talking for ages. All that talking made lunch late and the parsley sauce was all dried up. And it was the best …’

  Emma thought Florrie was about to cry. Poor Florrie, who was never likely to progress in life beyond working in someone else’s house.

  ‘I’m sure Dr Shaw and his wife would understand why the sauce wasn’t perfect, Florrie.’

  ‘Oh, they did an’ all,’ Florrie said. ‘Now, I’ve been out long enough. I’m supposed to be going to Foale’s for a rib of beef for supper and I’ve spent at least fifteen minutes talking to my sister who was coming out of the dairy. I’ll be in trouble if I’m out much longer. The constable, mind. You’d best go back to the Jagos’ place because I know the constable was going there after he left Dr Shaw.’

  Emma pressed her lips together. She’d rather go anywhere than back to Hilltop House and the Jagos. But her carpet bag was there and the clothes Dr Shaw’s wife had given her. And now she had a bundle of things that Matthew Caunter had brought round that morning and which she hadn’t looked at yet.

  She could do that in the privacy of her room – the back of the chair rammed under the door handle for safety.

  ‘Thanks for telling me, Florrie,’ Emma said. ‘Go careful on those cobbles. They’re more slippery than usual.’

  ‘I will,’ Florrie said. ‘Looks like someone didn’t clear up proper after the fish auction, don’t it? Anyway, I’ll be off. I hope they don’t lock you up or anything.’

  Florrie giggled, then ran off.

  Now why, Emma wondered, had Florrie said that? Had she overheard the constable and Dr Shaw in the study? Probably – Florrie was more than capable of a bit of eavesdropping.

  Dragging her feet, skirting seaweed here and there, Emma made the distance between the fish quay and Hilltop House take as long as she possibly could to cover.

  ‘The necklace, Miss,’ Constable Jeffery said the second Emma stepped into the kitchen. Emma knew who he was – it was he who’d come to tell her that Mama and Johnnie had fallen to their deaths.

  ‘What necklace? I don’t have a necklace. What’s more, I’m sure you know enough about me to know I was left with nothing. Nothing at all.’

  ‘Got a lot to say for herself, hasn’t she?’ The constable turned to Reuben Jago and smirked.

  ‘I warned you,’ Reuben Jago said.

  ‘The necklace in question is the one that was around Sophie Ellison’s neck when she was last seen in The Port Light.’ Constable Jeffery spoke as though he considered Emma an irritating insect of some sort, and a slow-thinking one at that.

  Emma shrugged. She didn’t have a clue what he was talking about – Sophie hadn’t had a necklace on when she’d found her.

  ‘Don’t you want to know what sort of a necklace it is?’

  ‘Not particularly. I don’t have a lot of use for necklaces. Not at the moment.’

  But I will one day, Emma thought. When I’ve been working at Nase Head House and earned lots of money. I’ll be able to buy as many necklaces as I want then.

  ‘You’ll make things easier for yourself if you co-operate with me, Missy.’

  ‘Miss Le Goff, not Missy.’

  ‘Oh, Miss Le Goff, is it? That’s what comes of letting furriners in, I suppose. All hoity-toity are we, with a fancy name?’

  ‘It’s the only name I’ve got, Constable Jeffery,’ Emma said as firmly as she could. Inside she was shaking.

  ‘Well then, Miss Le Goff, I’ll just take a look at that stuff there you’re clutching to you like a baby, shall I?’

  ‘No! I was only given it this morning and I haven’t looked at it myself yet.’

  ‘We’ll do it together.’ The constable made to take the bundle of papers and the bag from Emma.

  ‘We won’t,’ Emma said.

  She didn’t want anyone else touching her mama’s things.
That Matthew Caunter might have fingered them when he’d found them in the outhouse was enough. She slid the papers onto the table, turned each one over. Her parents’ marriage lines. Hers and Johnnie’s baptism certificates. Letters – the envelopes written in her papa’s hand. Emma wondered for a moment why her mama had put them in the outhouse. Had she been hiding them for some reason? From someone? Emma gulped back tears – with her mama in her grave she’d never know now, would she? Then she opened the bag. Tipped the contents carefully onto the table.

  And that’s when she almost stopped breathing. The gold links of the chain caught the light from the lamp on the table. Glistened. The large piece of highly polished amethyst in a gold casing shone. It had been her papa’s gift to her mama on their wedding day. Emma remembered sitting on her mama’s knee and reaching up to place the palm of her hot and sticky hand against the coolness of the amethyst.

  ‘My mama’s,’ Emma said, her voice the barest of whispers. How thrilled and yet how horrified she was to see it lying there.

  ‘Oh, what a consummate little actress you are. You knew it was there all along.’

  ‘I didn’t, Constable. I’ve only just opened this parcel. I told you that. Why shouldn’t I have it if it was found with all these other things?’

  ‘Because I don’t think it was found with those other things for one minute. I’ve been making enquiries, Miss Le Goff,’ the constable told her. ‘Seems Sophie Ellison was trying to sell it in the inn to pay for gin and the like – and there are plenty of witnesses to testify she was – but no one would give her the price she wanted.’

  ‘So someone murdered her and stole it,’ Emma said. ‘But it wasn’t me. I could never do such a thing. Murder or steal.’

  ‘So how did you acquire it?’ Reuben Jago asked.

  ‘I …’ Emma began then stopped.

  Matthew Caunter had given her the bag of her mama’s belongings with the necklace in it. Things that were hers by rights. But if he hadn’t found the necklace in the outhouse with the other things, then how had he come by it? Had he murdered Sophie Ellison?