Dark Places

by Dawson, H A

  ‘Shall I have a look?’ he suggested. ‘Why don’t you take a short wander?’

  She agreed and was at the far end of the room browsing a row of binders when he motioned her to return. Her eagerness reflected in her quick steps.

  ‘I’ve found something,’ he said, ‘look.’

  The article told of the deaths of four out of six of Jack and Catherine’s children, Edward, Marie, Josephine, and Albert, all occurring whilst in Catherine’s care. It went on to describe Jack’s desperation as he informed the police. ‘I never wanted to believe it,’ he had said, ‘she was my wife and I loved her.’ Jack continued to say that he had found the arsenic, bottled and labelled flour, and claimed that he had seen his wife add the substance to his children’s food. He had not suspected anything initially. ‘Why would I?’ he had said. The article continued to describe Jack as an upstanding citizen in the community and the son of a wealthy mine owner, whereas Catherine’s family was low class and considered less acceptable types. It also mentioned her suicide and described it as justice.

  Michaela glared at Sam, her jaw hanging. ‘Just because Jack had money his words had more value.’

  He did not reply.

  ‘It’s so unfair.’ She looked to the printer. ‘Can we print it off?’

  ‘Let's see'

  He pressed the screen print button. The printer whirred into action and the page printed. She held the warm sheet in her hand and scrutinised the words.

  ‘Why would Jack do such a thing?’ she asked. ‘Catherine was innocent. She would never have killed them.’

  ‘Can I have a look?’

  She passed him the piece of paper. As he scrutinised the text, she stared through the window at the patchy blue skies and struggled to believe what she had just read. She had hoped for something different. Seeing it in black and white was a shock.

  ‘It says here that Catherine’s sister was a well-established writer. Her name was Amelia Davey,’ he said.

  Really.’ She snatched the sheet of paper, confirmed what he said, and peered at Sam. ‘You don’t think they’ll have any of her books, do you?’

  ‘It’s worth a try.’

  She leapt from her chair and hurried to the staircase from the fifth floor, with her husband in tow. Too impatient to wait for the lift, she sped down the steps and arrived at the information desk in the fiction department. She wasted no time and requested any books written by Amelia Davey.

  ‘Yes,’ the assistant said, ‘we do have a copy of one of her books.’

  Grinning, she rushed into the fiction section and scanned the surnames. Hidden between two hefty hardbacks was a tatty book with a plain hardcover. She lifted it from the shelf and studied the description on the inside.

  ‘It says it’s about a woman’s fight for freedom from her husband, and her quest for independence. I bet it’s about Catherine.’

  ‘That’s a bit of a long shot.’

  ‘Come on Sam, writers have to get their ideas from somewhere. She knew about Catherine’s ordeal, remember the letter we found. It implied that they had had previous conversations about the accusations.’

  ‘If Amelia knew, why didn’t she help her form a defence?’

  ‘Maybe she intended to. I know I said Catherine fell, but it was just as likely that Jack pushed her. Perhaps he had worked out that she was considering proving her innocence and wanted rid.’

  He frowned. Was he thinking her ideas were fanciful again? It caused her to reiterate the dream in her mind. The last thing she remembered was Jack approaching, but she could not determine whether he had been in touching distance or not. It was frustrating.

  They meandered to the exit and joined the queue to borrow the book.

  ‘It was first printed in 1925,’ she continued. ‘That was a long time after Catherine’s death. It would have been safe to write about her sister’s life by then, without repercussions.’

  Having checked out the book, she pushed it into her bag and strode to the exit.

  ‘I am going to clear her name Sam,’ she said, ‘it’s what she wanted.’

  ‘I know,’ he said and sighed. ‘And I love you for it.’

  Chapter 18

  Spring 1908

  Dawn emerged and Catherine slipped out of bed and stretched her tired limbs. Her head was hazy and she struggled to focus, but her chores had become routine so she needed neither clear thinking nor excessive motivation. Drudgery was the norm. Each day she scrubbed the floors, cleaned the fireplaces, prepared warm water for washing, and made the meals. Then there was the laundry, a laborious task that was the source of her sore arms and shoulders.

  Fumbling in the dark, and using a tiny slip of light that crept through the curtains, she put on her clothes and listened to Jack’s deep-throated gurgling sounds as he slept. Glancing to her rear, she could see his flattened shape under the bedclothes, and knew from experience his head would be tilted back and his mouth ajar. Catherine was pleased that he slept soundly, as he could be an erratic sleeper and it affected his moods. Today, she hoped, he would be affable.

  Over the past three years, her relationship with her husband had become fraught with difficulties, and whilst Catherine tried to make positive comments, they were often ill-received, as Jack was grumpy and insolent and often treated her as though she were no more than a slave. Yearning for more, she had clung with desperation to the rare moments he had shown affection. Maybe today would be one of those days. Passing Jack one last glance, Catherine left the room and closed the door.

  Tiptoeing along the landing, she peered through a crack into the nursery and glanced at her two

  beautiful children, Arthur and Marie. Arthur was an astute little boy, even at his tender age of two, and had asked her about her swollen tummy. She told him she was having another baby. He said he wanted a brother this time. Catherine smiled and promised him she would do her best. Then, he had talked of Marie.

  ‘She doesn’t do anything. When can I play with her?’

  ‘She’s still a baby. You could play gentle games with her.’

  ‘If I have a brother, will he play with me?’

  ‘He will when he’s old enough.’

  ‘When will that be?’

  ‘It depends on what games you want to play.’

  Warmed by the memories, and preoccupied with the image of their small pink faces and tiny hands, she progressed downstairs and began her morning chores. Her first task was to remove the ash from the fireplace. The fine particles stirred as she scooped them into a container, and the air became dense. As always, she tried to stop fragments from touching her clothes and skin, and as always, she failed and the blackness penetrated.

  With the fire started, she poured water into two containers and rested them upon the fireplace to heat, then she progressed with the breakfast preparations, but within moments, Marie began to cry. Catherine rushed upstairs, keeping her footsteps light, and reached into the crib for her wailing daughter. Marie’s warm soft body nestled into hers and her contorted pink face relaxed. She glanced at Arthur. He remained in a peaceful slumber.

  His hand covered his mouth and his nostrils rose and fell. He had fine strands of blond hair, a small upturned nose, and tiny ears. She wondered what would become of him and if his father would encourage him to work in the mine. So long as he achieved a good age, Catherine would be happy with his decision.

  Her heart slumped. Regrettably, Edward had been dealt a poor hand. Maybe she could have done more to help him, but that had not been his destiny; his battle had been too great. Each day that had past, Catherine’s torment deepened. She knew that she was losing her son, and she knew his pain increased daily and prayed for his relief. When it came, a sense of hopelessness overwhelmed.

  Jack had provided Catherine with minimal comfort, and for weeks, he barely spoke. His suggestion that she had poisoned her child continuously resounded in her head and her culpability escalated. She could see the hatred in his face, and hear his abhorrence in his words. He could not e
ven look at her, and certainly would not listen to her explanation. What could she do to convince her husband that she was innocent when they were not even able to communicate? As terrible as it was to accept, Edward’s death had been inevitable; he had never been going to recover from his illness.

  With Marie now settled, she placed her upon the floor and removed her dirty nappy. Enraptured by her large blue eyes, she placed soft kisses on her bare skin, cleaned her bottom, and wrapped her in a clean cloth. Gurgling and chuckling, Marie noticed Catherine’s drooping strands of hair, and extended her arm and outstretched her fingers taking hold. Unconcerned, Catherine blew a rasping sound onto her skin. Her daughter’s laughter was instant and her fist slackened. She pulled away, enriched with pleasure, and headed downstairs.

  With her daughter fed and now occupied, Catherine returned her attention to breakfast, and cooked sausages and sliced the bread. Jack’s appearance was timely. He sat at the dining table and she presented him with food.

  ‘With whom were you talking?’ he asked between bites.

  Catherine was mystified. ‘I wasn’t talking to anyone.’

  ‘I heard voices. Don’t lie to me, Catherine.’

  His accusation was bewildering. She could not understand why Jack would think anyone would be at the house at this time of day, and she strained her mind. Had she spoke aloud to Marie, or had she voiced her thoughts on Edward? Her heart quickened. She would have to be more careful. Her inner thoughts had to stay private.

  ‘There was no one here. I have been occupied with the children only,’ she said feebly.

  ‘Was it Amelia? She is a bad influence. I will not have her in my house.’

  ‘Amelia is my sister. I will not turn her away.’

  He harrumphed. ‘She is no better than a whore. It is about time she married instead of coming around here at this hour and leading you astray.’

  ‘How dare you! Amelia is a successful independent woman. She does not need a man to look after her. I wish I was in her position.’

  Jack stood up, and before she had a chance to retreat, he slapped her across the face. With her cheek stinging, she turned and rushed to the kitchen, but as she passed by the staircase, a slight movement caught her eye. Her instincts told her Arthur had witnessed the incident, but like a mouse, he had scurried away. She rushed to his bedroom.

  ‘Arthur?’

  Her eyes flitted and she scanned the room, searching for the small whimpers that seeped through the air. Having determined the location of the sound, she opened the sturdy hardwood wardrobe door, and saw, crouched at the base under clothes, his forlorn figure. She reached to him. His knees were tight against his chest, his arms wrapped around his legs and his face masked.

  ‘Please come out.’

  She reached for his tiny hand and coaxed it free, and tried to encourage his body into the open. Initially, he resisted and fought with an unexpected strength, but he did succumb, and in time spread his arms around her body. His shallow breaths became less urgent as she stroked his head, and his body slackened as she whispered calming words into his ear.

  Catherine did not know if Arthur understood what he had seen, and prayed not, but his instincts had brought about a fear relating to his well-being. If Jack’s intolerance continued, it would grow and develop. She was desperate to protect her child, but what could she do. She could not divorce Jack. As Amelia had so often said, women had few rights.

  After the dreadful start and still recovering from Jack’s hurtful comments, Catherine’s day failed to improve and was proving ever more arduous. Marie’s woeful cries were regular and tiresome, and Arthur was irritable and difficult to entertain. She tried not to lose her temper, but her chores were mounting and her fatigued body craved rest. There were nappies to wash, food to prepare, and cleaning to be completed, and she was not making headway.

  Arthur pulled at her dress.

  ‘Please go play,’ she pleaded, ‘I have work to do.’

  Shuffling away, his head dipped and his shoulders slumped.

  Exasperated, Catherine inhaled as she rested her hands upon the kitchen surface, and noticed her dry skin and the deepening grooves. She had never expected her life to be so difficult and remembered how, as a girl, she dreamed of her future. Her husband, or so she had thought, would be distinguished and well spoken, her children would be polite and well educated, and there would be servants, lots of them. Catherine wondered if she had expected too much, but Jack had shown potential. His family was wealthy and he was caring, attentive, and had treated her with respect. What had happened? Why had married life changed him so?

  But then again, she had changed too. She had grown used to the loneliness, but it had made her insular. No longer did she share opinions with her mother and sisters with the frequency she would like, nor did she share aspects of her daily troubles. What would Amelia think if she admitted that she was unhappy? She knew her chosen life was exactly what her sister was fighting against, yet it had been what she had wanted.

  Scrubbing the floor as she knelt, she made small circular motions with a soft bristled brush and removed the spills and dirt lingering in the cracks. Her arms ached and her back was sore. She leaned back and placed a hand to her bump. At least she was only a few months pregnant. How would she cope when the baby was imminent?

  A knock on the door startled her. Taking care not to spill the water, she placed the brush into the bucket, wiped her wet hands on a cloth, and raised herself to her feet, and in spite of her ever-growing list of chores, she prayed the visitor would be a familiar companion. The cool spring air rushed through the door as the gap emerged. It was Amelia, and Catherine’s face broke into a wide smile.

  She reached across to offer a brief hug, but Amelia was stiff and unresponsive, and her expression was one of deep anxiety.

  ‘What is wrong?’ Catherine asked.

  She avoided eye contact and stepped into the house. Nothing. Nothing at all.’

  ‘If you don’t mind, I just need to finish the kitchen floor. Then we can chat.’

  ‘Then I’ll go look to Marie.’

  ‘Sure, but if she’s sleeping, let her rest. She has been grumpy all day.’

  Amelia nodded and disappeared. Her dulled footsteps sounded as she climbed the stairs, and her voice appeared mumbled as she spoke with Arthur. Yet rather than focusing on the conversation, Catherine concentrated upon her task with a newfound urgency. By the time Amelia returned, it was complete.

  ‘You should have a housemaid.’

  ‘It is not necessary. I can manage.’

  ‘You deserve so much more. Jack treats you like a slave.’

  ‘Jack is good to me.’

  They headed into the parlour where the fire warmed the room. Amelia perched on a chair near the heat, but as Catherine’s skin was already glistening and rosy, she hovered by the door. Unwillingly, she noticed Amelia’s pity, believing her to be criticising her tired clothes and ragged hair. Wiping her brow, she, dropped her gaze.

  ‘You could leave Jack. I would support you.’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  She averted her eyes and twiddled her fingers. ‘You could have so much more.’

  ‘I love Jack. I don’t want any more.’

  ‘Are you sure he loves you?’

  Catherine stepped to the window and looked into the vast expanse, yet no matter how hard she tried, she could not formulate the answer she needed. Surely, there had been moments when he had portrayed his love for her; he had not always been as uncommunicative and irritable as he was of late. She searched for positive memories.

  An afternoon, a few weeks ago sprung to mind. They had taken the children for a walk and a picnic. There had been laughter and joviality. Jack has teased Arthur; he had a twinkle in his eye; he had kissed her with a passion.

  ‘Jack does love me.’ Catherine insisted.

  Amelia held her gaze, and then, as anxiety washed over her, she turned away.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked.


  Her sister hesitated.

  ‘Please, I can tell something is bothering you.’

  ‘The law is so unfair,’ she blurted, ‘if you wanted a divorce, you would lose all your money unless you can prove it is rightfully yours. Also, your children would be under Jack’s care, regardless of the reason. A wife is the man’s possession. He could abuse you and cheat on you, and you could be the perfect wife, but that would change nothing. You would be destitute.’

  Catherine’s pulse quickened and her body quivered as Amelia’s fidgeting increased, and then, with a piercing stare, her sister looked straight in her eyes. Her mouth opened as though to speak. She wavered and looked away.

  ‘Amelia?’

  ‘Jack has a mistress. I’m sorry Catherine, but I saw them together.’

  She could not speak, but underneath her skin, her fury rumbled.

  Her adrenaline flowed like never before. Water surged over the side of the wooden tub as she pummelled three days’ worth of nappies in the now murky water. It spilled onto the stone flag floor and pooled in the dips. Her feet were sodden, and the hem of her dress saturated, but she was oblivious and could only think of Jack and his mistress.

  Amelia had said the woman showed too much flesh; Catherine interpreted the comment as curvaceous and busty. She said the dress was garish; Catherine felt dowdy and plain. She said the woman clung to his arm; she thought of Jack’s warm breath and sensual kisses.

  Had she not done all that was possible to make him happy? Had she not provided for him, cared for him, ignored his unfathomable behaviour and irritability?

  Stomping to the well for more water, she screamed silent profanities. Had he ever noticed how she kept the house immaculate and without assistance? Were his meals not always prepared? Were his clothes not always clean?

  And she had remained faithful. Not once had Catherine considered spending her days away from the home, even though it would have been easy to do. She could have travelled to local towns with Amelia, and Jack would have been none the wiser. She could have visited her family more and cleaned less, but she had not. Had Jack ever considered her needs and desires? Had he ever considered her isolated existence?