by Nicola Upson
‘Ah, you’ve met Elsie, then? Her bark’s worse than her bite and she’s a good sort, but three of her brothers were killed in France and the death of a whore has lost its power to shock.’
The words jarred and Josephine looked at the vicar’s wife with a new interest; tea with someone who was willing to discuss the village and its history in such an open way might not be the ordeal she was expecting. ‘Sugar?’ she asked, and Hilary nodded.
‘As far as Elsie’s concerned, Maria Marten was a silly girl who got what was coming to her, and you won’t find many dissenting voices. I suppose they’re right, in a way. Why should her name be shouted from the stage – celebrated, even – when their dead only get a line on a plaque and a service once a year? The fact that it’s a good story doesn’t seem a very adequate answer, somehow, does it?’ She turned the pages thoughtfully, then smiled. ‘It is a good story, though.’
‘Is it?’
‘Good God, yes. It’s marvellous. I shouldn’t say this to a writer, but you couldn’t make it up.’ Hilary settled back into Hester’s chair, her reason for coming all but forgotten. ‘What do you know?’
Josephine repeated what she had been told. ‘Innocent maiden, seduced by the village squire and killed in a barn in eighteen something.’
‘Eighteen twenty-seven, yes. William Corder wasn’t the squire, though. He was the son of one of the richer tenant farmers. The squire was at Polstead Hall, and Maria never had him. The closest she got was his brother-in-law, a chap called Matthews who lived in London. She had a son by him before she started seeing William.’
‘And didn’t she have a child by Corder’s brother as well?’
‘Yes. Thomas Corder was her first lover, but the child died.’ She grinned. ‘Doesn’t look good on paper, does it? You’ve got to admire her spirit, though, and she aimed high – that’s what I like about Maria. It’s what I always tell the girls at Sunday School – know what you want and go for it.’
A murdered girl with illegitimate children by different fathers was an interesting role model for a vicar’s wife, Josephine thought. She was beginning to see why Stephen’s choice might be frowned upon in certain circles; personally, she thought Hilary Lampton was the best advert for the church she’d seen in years. ‘What was so special about Maria?’
‘Well, she was very pretty, in that fresh-faced, rather coy way. Have you seen Curtis’s book?’ Josephine shook her head. ‘There’s bound to be a copy here somewhere. James Curtis – he covered the case for The Times and published a book on it afterwards. There’s a drawing of Maria in that. She was a real charmer, by all accounts. William might have been above her socially, but he was punching well over his weight in every other sense, and that’s always dangerous in a man. Are you married, Josephine?’
She rapped the question out with a no-nonsense brusqueness and Josephine felt at liberty to answer in the same vein, without explanations or apologies. ‘No.’
‘I don’t blame you. It can cramp your style.’
The comment was wistful rather than bitter, and Josephine wondered whether the regrets it implied stemmed from the role Hilary had married into or the marriage itself. She looked forward to meeting Stephen. ‘How long have you been here?’ she asked.
‘Sixteen years,’ Hilary said, so readily that Josephine half-expected her to count off the months and days as well. ‘We met in London. I was involved in a charity in the East End, and Stephen was the pastor. He got the job up here soon after we married.’
‘And your children?’
‘Sixteen, ten and eight. All boys. Probably just as well. If we’d had a girl, I might have called her Maria out of sheer devilment.’
Josephine laughed. ‘So what about the original Maria? Any other lovers before William?’
‘No, he was her third but there was nothing very lucky about it. They walked out for a bit, moonlit trysts in the Red Barn, that sort of thing, and then the inevitable happened. Her family wanted Corder to make an honest woman of her, but he always had an excuse.’
‘Yes, I can imagine.’
‘To be fair, they were good excuses. His father died, so he had more responsibilities on the farm, then one brother drowned in the pond and two others caught TB and shuffled off as well. God knows what that must have been like for his mother – then the only son left gets himself hanged, selfish bastard. But I’ve jumped – where did I get to?’
‘Maria was pregnant.’
‘Oh yes. Well, they shipped her out to Sudbury to have the baby, but it died soon after she brought it back.’
‘That must have solved a few problems,’ Josephine said cynically. ‘How did the child die?’
‘Natural causes, I think, although there were rumours later when the whole thing came out.’
‘Still, it must have taken the pressure off Corder to get her to the altar.’
‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But it didn’t. Nobody else was going to touch Maria by then, so he was her family’s last hope.’ She drained her cup, and Josephine poured more tea. ‘Stephen sees his fair share of modern-day Marias, you know, and nothing’s really changed. The shame for the Martens in a village like this must have been unbearable.’
Josephine couldn’t help thinking that things must have been blacker still for Maria. ‘Did she actually want to marry him, I wonder?’
Hilary gave a sympathetic smile. ‘I shouldn’t think anybody stopped to ask. A woman in Maria’s position doesn’t have many options. Anyway, after a few more false promises, Corder finally agreed to take her to Ipswich and marry her there. He turned up at the Martens’ cottage one morning with some men’s clothes for Maria so that nobody would recognise her, and they went separately to the Red Barn.’ Hilary paused, then finished dramatically in a hushed tone of which Hester would have been proud: ‘Maria was never seen alive again.’ Josephine tried not to look disappointed. She was pleased to hear a story that belonged to a village she was getting to know, but she still didn’t quite understand why it had become so legendary. ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Hilary said, ‘but it gets much more interesting once Maria is dead.’
‘Go on.’
‘William came back to the village a few days later, claiming some sort of delay with the marriage licence. He told Maria’s family that she was staying in Ipswich until it could be sorted out, then spun a load of other reasons why they hadn’t heard from her.’
‘Such as?’
‘Oh, she was too busy to write or had hurt her hand. That sort of thing.’
‘Were they particularly stupid?’ Josephine asked.
‘I think it was more a case of life being easier with Maria out of the village. They chose not to ask too many questions, and whatever they really thought, William was confident enough to stay in Polstead until the harvest was in. Then he left as well.’
‘Thinking he’d got away with it, I suppose.’
‘For a while, yes – until they found Maria’s body, buried in the barn. She’d been there for nearly a year.’
‘Is it true that her mother told them where to look?’
‘Her stepmother. Maria’s mother died when she was a little girl and her father remarried. It came to her in a dream, apparently.’
‘I bet it did,’ Josephine said, beginning to see why the story was so popular.
‘It’s funny, isn’t it? Nobody questioned that at the time. They tracked Corder down to London, and do you know what he’d done?’
It was a rhetorical question, but Josephine took a guess. ‘Killed someone else?’
‘No, quite the contrary. He’d advertised for a wife, married one of the respondents and started running a girls’ school.’
‘Good God!’
‘Quite. Can you believe the nerve of the man?’ Hilary cut another large slice of cake for each of them. ‘It’s not bad, this, is it? I must tell Stephen to thank whoever it was so we get another one. Anyway, the police brought Corder back here to attend the inquest. I’d love to have been a fly on the wa
ll that night.’
‘If Maria had been in the earth for a year, there were probably plenty of those already,’ Josephine said. ‘Did he confess?’
‘Not until the eve of his execution. He put up his own defence – they had to in those days – but I gather the legal stuff on the other side was quite clever. They weren’t sure how he’d killed her, so they charged him with every method they could think of just to make sure.’
‘I’m not sure if that sounds clever or incompetent.’
‘No, you’ve got a point. Still, he swung for it. I doubt Bury’s ever seen anything like it. Thousands of people turned up, from all over the country. They sold the rope for a guinea an inch, apparently. His scalp’s still on display in Moyse’s Hall. You must go while you’re here.’
Josephine remembered the name of the museum from Hester’s will. ‘Yes, I’ll do that. There are some things of Hester’s there that I’d like to see as well.’ She smiled and pointed to the study, where piles of scrapbooks and theatre programmes could be seen through the open door. ‘Not that I’m short of Hester’s memorabilia here. I’ve barely scratched the surface.’
‘Do you need a hand? I’m sure it’s fascinating stuff.’
A vision passed through Josephine’s mind of Hilary and a band of Stephen’s loyal parishioners descending on the cottage to get things organised, and she said hurriedly: ‘Thank you, but it’s fine. There’s no urgency and I’m actually quite enjoying myself.’ She looked out of the window and changed the subject: ‘Where was the Red Barn?’
‘Oh, about a hundred yards from here,’ Hilary said. She waved her hand in an indeterminate direction that left Josephine none the wiser.
‘And did you say Corder’s mother was still alive at the time?’
‘Yes, although I imagine she wished she weren’t. She didn’t stay in the village for very long afterwards. You wouldn’t, would you? Just came back to be buried.’ She dabbed at the crumbs on her plate absent-mindedly. ‘Have you been to the church yet?’
‘I’m afraid I’m not really a churchgoer.’
‘Oh, don’t apologise for that. Quite frankly, the chapel’s knocking us into a cocked hat at the moment. It’s such a shame for Stephen – he writes lovely sermons, and they take him days. No, I just wondered if you’d seen the graveyard. The Corders are there, lined up in a row, and it’s really quite impressive. I hate to say it, but there’s often a bigger crowd outside than in.’
‘Is Maria there, too?’
‘Some of her.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I tell you, Josephine, that girl’s been in and out of the ground more often than a farmer’s shovel. They dug her up from the barn and hauled her into the Cock for the inquest, then it’s up to the church as quick as you like, only to find they don’t know enough about how she died, so up she comes again. They were even passing her skull round in court during the trial. Is it any wonder the press had a field day?’ She was quiet for a moment, then spoke more seriously. ‘It’s her son I feel sorry for. I know he was only two when Maria was killed, but she was a good mother, by all accounts – husband or no husband. Kids take things in, don’t they? He must have missed her.’
‘What happened to him?’
Hilary shrugged. ‘Who knows? That’s one of the frustrating things about the story – no one bothers with the minor casualties. But yes, his mother’s in the churchyard. Stephen can show you where her grave is. There’s no stone left now – it was all chipped away by souvenir hunters. I can understand people taking bits of the barn and selling them, but I’d like to think a gravestone was off limits. No wonder your godmother wouldn’t be seen dead there.’
It was said without any obvious irony, and Josephine stifled a smile. ‘What happened to the woman Corder married?’
‘She stood by him throughout the whole thing. Did I tell you she was carrying his child by then?’
‘No.’
‘There was a son, born a few months after the execution. She was religious, apparently – one of those genuinely good people.’ She spoke with a sense of wonder, and Josephine couldn’t help but think that someone in Hilary’s position should sound more blasé about goodness. ‘Anyway, talking of faith and duty, I must go and rescue Stephen from the children so he can get on with Sunday’s sermon. He works far too hard. If he’s not careful, he’ll end up as archdeacon and then I really will have to leave him.’ She stood and picked up her gloves, apparently oblivious to the newsletter’s lack of copy. ‘It’s been lovely, though. We must do it again.’
They walked out into the garden together and Hilary paused by the gate, looking back at the cottage. ‘I’m so pleased she didn’t leave after all, aren’t you? It would have been such a shame.’
‘I’m sorry – I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Miss Larkspur. She was making plans for when the cottage got too much for her. She told Stephen that it would break her heart to leave, but she wasn’t getting any younger. I think she intended to go back to London, but that might be my assumption.’ The plan was perfectly sensible – its isolation alone would make Red Barn Cottage impossible for an older woman – and yet it surprised Josephine. She was trying to work out why as Hilary added: ‘It’s right somehow that she should die here. She was so much a part of the place. Now she can stay with her ghosts.’
Josephine smiled. ‘Maria and William, you mean?’
‘Oh I’m sure they’re about somewhere, but I was thinking more of Mr Paget. Stephen said she always felt him very strongly here after he died. That was one of the reasons she didn’t want to leave.’ She retrieved her bicycle from the hedge and put her bag in its basket. ‘It must be nice to have a ghost you’re fond of. We’re stuck with the Reverend Whitmore. He was vicar here during Maria’s time and he’s supposed to ride a headless horse down Rectory Hill or something. I’ve never seen him, but we were blessed with a run of particularly nervous maids for a while and we couldn’t keep one for more than a month. I begged Stephen to exorcise him but he said it wasn’t ethical. Now we’ve got Beattie, and she seems to be made of much sterner stuff, thank God.’ She smiled. ‘Another couple of weeks here, and you’ll never be short of a story.’
‘I’m beginning to realise that.’ Josephine thought about what Hilary had told her. ‘Did you and Stephen know Hester well?’
‘Stephen more than me. Miss Larkspur was one of those women who values men, I suppose. Please don’t take that the wrong way – I don’t mean it in the Maria sense. She was gracious and charming to me, but she sparkled when Stephen – or any man – came into the room, and they loved her.’ Josephine remembered the look on John MacDonald’s face and knew exactly what Hilary meant. ‘You must come and speak to him about her. He’d love to meet you. How about supper after evensong on Sunday?’
‘I’ll have left by then, I’m afraid. I’m going into Hadleigh tomorrow morning to get the train.’
‘All right. Let me know when you’re back and we’ll make a date.’
It was refreshing for Josephine to meet someone who expected her to stay. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve heard of a Lucy Kyte, have you? I think she was a friend of Hester’s, but I’m not sure if she was local to here or not.’
Hilary thought for a moment and shook her head. ‘Sorry, no, but I’m hopeless with names. You could try the parish register if you’ve got enough hours in your life. Then at least you’d know if the name was local. Would that help?’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ Josephine said, although she couldn’t quite see how. ‘One last question before you go: do you know if Hester was writing a memoir? I read something about it in the Inverness paper.’
‘She was definitely working on something. I don’t know what – she wouldn’t tell me – but when I went round about the film, she promised to give me something else for the newsletter before too long.’
‘And that was two years ago?’
‘Give or take, yes.’ She started to push her bike out into the lane, then thought better of it
. ‘There was one other curious thing – you’ve probably heard it already. Back in May, the church bell rang in the middle of the night.’
‘Because someone had died?’
‘That’s just it. No one had died – or so we thought – and no one would admit to the ringing. Then a couple of days later, Bert found Miss Larkspur’s body.’
‘Bert Willis?’
‘That’s right. Have you met him?’
‘Yes, but he didn’t say anything about finding Hester’s body.’
‘He probably didn’t want to upset you. Now, how are you getting to Hadleigh in the morning?’
Josephine shrugged. ‘I hadn’t thought. A taxi, I suppose.’
Hilary’s laughter rang out through the afternoon. ‘You’ll be lucky. I’ll run you in myself – I’ve got to do some shopping. Nine thirty suit you?’
She pushed her bicycle away up the track, leaving Josephine in peace with plenty to think about.
5
She woke suddenly, her head full of dreams. The images from her conversation with Hilary had, in sleep, metamorphosed into a more personal hell, a nightmare in which she found herself searching Hester’s garden for a body while a stream of strangers told her there was nothing wrong. She lay in the darkness, waiting for the real and illusory worlds to fall back into place, but her relief at waking did not entirely dispel the grief and anger of the dream. There were tears on her face, but she needed no physical reminder of the despair she had felt as she clawed at the earth until her hands bled, banging the ground in frustration and screaming for someone to listen because the body she was looking for was Marta’s.
When the panic subsided, she realised that the banging, at least, was real, and was coming from the boxroom next to hers: a dull, regular thud where the window, freed by her efforts with the rose, had swung loose and was knocking against the cottage wall. She fumbled for the torch on her bedside table and pushed the sheets aside, glad to feel the cool night air on her skin. It was hardly the moment she would have chosen to face the chaos of that room for the first time, but she could not leave without securing it. She pushed some boxes to one side and stepped past them, the light from her torch picking out random objects that seemed as disconnected and surreal as the dream she had just left. The small bed was buried under mounds and mounds of clothes, all smelling of mothballs, cigarette smoke and a heavy, sickly perfume, and she had to fight a wave of claustrophobia as she crawled over them to get to the window. The catch had broken, and when she pulled it gently to she noticed that the hinges moved precariously in rotten wood – something else to add to the list of repairs when she was next here. For now, she wound an old piece of material around the handle and stared out into the blackness, hoping to see just one light that would connect her to another human being. There was nothing. Only memory led her gaze in the direction of the road.