Dark Places

by Dawson, H A

  The task was laborious and she started to lose hope. The patch of disturbed ground was growing bigger, and it would take ages to restore. She wondered if it was worth the effort and rested her hand onto the fork, standing motionless and easing away her tight breaths and rapid pulse. Her father’s voice sprung into her mind. He told her not to give up.

  Michaela continued, but her movements lacked enthusiasm. He had never been her father and the truth had broken her heart. His name may be on her birth certificate, but it meant nothing. It had been an attempt by her mother to keep her secret; it had been another of her lies.

  Her father had been unable to have children, so in a strange way, the pregnancy was a momentous gift from his brother. According to her mother, he never showed resentment and kept his ill feeling to himself. He was a wonderful man, and she missed him and loved him, and longed to be able to have one last discussion.

  Maybe she would say it didn’t matter that he wasn’t her true father, even though it did; maybe he would apologise for the secrets he kept. Regardless, they would voice their love and share a loving embrace.

  Heavy-hearted, she continued with her task. A short while later as she willed herself to stay motivated, her fork jabbed something hard. Tingling with hope, she increased her efforts, brushing aside the loose soil with quickening speed. Something rectangular was on the ground, and it didn’t feel like a brick or a chunk of wood. She bent over, grasping it with her fingers, and yanked it free.

  Elated, her heart pounded. The lid of the tin would not budge. She raced back to the house, opened the door, kicked off her muddy boots, and peered at Sam and Grace.

  ‘I’ve found it. I’ve found the diary.’

  She tried to free the lid; her arms swelled with the effort and droplets of perspiration formed on her head. It would not budge.

  ‘Before you do that,’ Sam said, ‘Grace has some news. Try to be open-minded.’

  She huffed and puffed. It would not release.

  ‘We think you are suffering from copper toxicity. Grace wants to do a test. It may have even caused your miscarriage.’

  She stopped. She glimpsed at Grace and stared at Sam.

  He gulped. ‘I’m sorry. I had to tell her, I worried about you.’

  She turned her attention back to the tin, urging it to shift.

  ‘You have all the symptoms. Headaches, depression, mood swings. We think the copper pipes in the house may have caused it,’ he continued.

  ‘It can cause personality changes too,’ Grace added, ‘I think Jack, and possibly Jim suffered too. Whilst I was researching it I found a case of someone suffering from schizophrenia – the cause was excess copper.’

  Michaela raised her head, and the tin rested in her hands. ‘You said it was due to the copper pipes. There wouldn’t have been any of those in Jack’s day, surely.’

  ‘No, but he worked in a copper mine, which may have got into his system. Also, traces of copper could have infiltrated the water in the well, especially after heavy rain.’

  ‘So it could have made him a bit crazy.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So why isn’t Sam affected . . . or why wasn’t Catherine?’ Michaela asked.

  ‘Some people are more prone than others.’

  She held a pensive gaze.

  ‘It can also come down to diet. Some foods are high in copper and help create an imbalance. Shellfish, nuts and seeds, avocado, soybeans can all be problematic.’

  ‘I love that stuff.’

  ‘And the birth control pill increases the risk too. The toxins build up in the liver and causes sluggishness, and then a variety of ailments can occur. I’ll print off some information for you.’

  ‘How could it have caused my miscarriage?’

  ‘Copper is needed to hold the pregnancy. It’s not all bad, though, with nutritional changes, the copper can be balanced.’

  ‘So I could have a successful pregnancy next time?’

  She smiled. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thank you . . . sister.’

  Grace was speechless.

  ‘Did you know?’ Michaela asked.

  ‘I had my suspicions,’ she said quietly.

  Chapter 33

  The tin rested on the coffee table and the lid on the floor. Michaela, Sam, and Grace, all leaned forward, staring at the diary that had lain undisturbed for a century. It had a firm brown cover with a crease running in an almost perfect horizontal line, and the pages had tattered edges and thick sheets. Michaela’s hands hovered above.

  Blood powered through her veins and her hands were shaking, the realisation that she would discover the truth overpowering. A rush of cold air enveloped her. She wanted more than anything to read the contents, but at the same time, she knew this was the end. What if she discovered that Catherine had committed the crimes? Would she still feel the same sympathy that had carried her on her journey?

  ‘Go on then,’ Sam said.

  ‘I think I’ll go change first.’ At the doorway, she stopped. ‘Don’t open it.’

  He smiled. ‘I wouldn’t dare.’

  Her adrenaline surged. She was elated, but at the same time terrified. She tried to calm herself by moving with slow, deliberate, and controlled movements, but her body would not cooperate and she felt uncoordinated and cumbersome. She fumbled with her trouser button and pulled them down, trapping her left foot in the fabric and causing her to stumble backward onto the bed. Freeing herself from a tangle of fabric, she reached for a loose-fitting skirt and a clean white blouse from the small wardrobe and then knocked her hand on the door. Grimacing, she rubbed away the pain.

  Once dressed, she glanced at herself in the mirror before making her way back downstairs. Grace was waiting in the hallway.

  ‘I’m going to leave you to it,’ she said, ‘but do let me know what it says.’

  ‘I will. And let me have the information on copper toxicity.’

  ‘We have a lot of catching up to do.’

  She closed the door, smiled, and turned around.

  Sam hovered at her rear. ‘Come on, I can’t wait any longer.’

  They moved back into the living room where she reached for the diary and eased her way through the pages. There were signs of dampness, difficult-to-read text, and ink splodges, but in the main, it was in good condition. At the end, there were blank sheets, and it made Catherine’s sudden death seem unexpected and sad. She had only been around thirty when she died; she should have had many good years ahead of her.

  Michaela flicked her way back to the start and read an entry about Jack.

  ‘I love him dearly,’ it said, ‘and would do anything for him, but I do not receive the same in return. He can be a difficult man, harsh and cruel and for reason unbeknown to me, he does not see the error of his ways. Amelia tells me I expect too much and that being a married man is changing his perspective. But what would she know? She is not married. Her relationships are lustful and exciting. I cannot remember the last time I experienced the tingling sensation she describes when my husband’s hand gently caresses my skin.’

  She turned to Sam, ‘see, I told you he never loved her.’

  ‘Read on,’ he replied.

  She turned back to the text, and read the next entry.

  ‘Today Jack told me he loved me and reminded me that I should be more appreciative for the little things he does. Perhaps he is right. I did not thank him for the perfume he gave me; it was an expensive acquisition and one that the depraved masses would hanker after.’

  ‘There are always two sides to every story,’ he said. ‘Men think differently to woman.’

  ‘Even so, there was obviously a problem.’

  Turning over the stiff sheets of paper, she scanned the writing. There was more evidence of Catherine’s low opinion of her husband, and unlike Sam, she was steadfast in her opinion that Jack was at fault. Catherine may have been suffering the hardship of Edwardian life, but it was no excuse. Jack had the money to provide her with help around the house, and companio
nship too.

  ‘It was her own fault,’ Sam said, ‘she should have stood up to him more.’

  ‘It does say she tried. He wouldn’t have a bar of it.’

  ‘Then she should have tried harder. Look at this next bit, she admits she never allowed herself personal time to maintain friendships, and instead spent her time ensuring the house ran to perfection. Her dedication was her downfall.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘I see your point. It does seem strange she acted that way, especially when her sister was fighting for women’s rights. You’d think a little bit of what Amelia said would have rubbed off on her.’

  ‘Maybe she felt inadequate in comparison.’

  ‘Or maybe Jack was headstrong and refused to listen. At the end of the day, she was merely a woman, a wife, and had few rights. Remember Amelia’s articles? A wife was her husband’s property.’

  Michaela flicked over the page of the diary and gazed at the writing. If Catherine had been a subservient type, it would have been difficult for her to disagree with Jack. He should have realised her needs and provided for her in the manner a husband should.

  ‘Look at this,’ Sam said, ‘she’s written about his psychotic episodes.’

  She leaned forward and started to read. Catherine knew something was wrong with Jack, and explained in detail his hallucinations and delusions, but ultimately, and fearing it would have been impossible to convince him to see someone, she had chosen to ignore them. Nonetheless, she worried for the children and hinted at the shame should anyone discover his illness. She needed a husband and her children needed a father.

  ‘Do you think his hallucinations and such like could be caused by copper toxicity?’ Michaela asked.

  ‘Grace believes so.’

  ‘It sounds a bit far-fetched.’

  ‘Not really. She said it’s more common than you think. And he did work in a copper mine.’

  ‘I guess.’ She smoothed her hand across her hair. ‘Was the fact he blamed Catherine for the children’s deaths part of his mental illness too?’

  Could have been.’

  ‘It’s a feeble excuse.’

  ‘I agree. It doesn’t excuse him from his shocking behaviour, but it does explain it. No one should have to tolerate relentless accusations, especially not regarding something like that.’

  ‘You’re not on Catherine’s side are you?’

  He gave her a wry smile and averted his gaze, looking at the diary. ‘There is something about Edward here.’

  Swift change of subject!’ She looked to the end of the page and started to read.

  ‘Edward is a sickly child,’ it said, ‘I try not to contemplate the pain he must suffer on a daily basis, it is too stressful and I am helpless to assist. He coughs up blood, he struggles to breathe, and he has no strength to stay awake. Of course, Jack is of no help. I hate him for disregarding his child. He acts as though he feels shame. He tells me he has done all he can, acquiring the doctor and all, but I need more help. I need him by my side.’

  She scanned the next entries and read details regarding Edward’s poor condition. Then she focused on a single line of text.

  ‘Today it will end. He cannot recover so I have made plans.’

  She turned to Sam. ‘What do you think she meant?’

  He gave her a knowing look.

  ‘No Sam. She can’t have killed him.’

  ‘Look at the next entry.’

  ‘Edward died today and Jack accused me of killing him. What could I say? I did what I had to do. Jack showed no courage.’

  Michaela’s body ached as the truth was thrust upon her. She slumped back into the sofa and wondered how she could have been so foolish. Catherine had been a harsh woman and not the weak and sensitive type as she had imagined. Mary’s comments regarding Catherine’s frosty behaviour sprung into her head. Unfortunately, there seemed to be an element of truth in her words.

  More than anything, she wanted to prove Catherine’s innocence. She thought her instincts were trustworthy, and glimpsed at Sam, who continued to read the diary, and felt her shame wash over her. Her desire to read any more diminished; it was as though she had lost a good friend.

  She searched for excuses. Edward would have died anyway. There had not been the medicine or knowledge to save him. He had been in pain. His death had not been a result of premeditated evil.

  It was the same as what she had done to Bloomer.

  Grief-stricken, she stood up, squeezed past the coffee table and moved to the door.

  ‘Aren’t you going to read anymore?’ he asked.

  ‘Later.’

  She stepped into the hallway, away from the oppressive atmosphere, and breathed in the fresh circulating air. There was an open window on the landing, one in the kitchen, and another in the partially decorated room. Forcing her eyes away from the broken walls and exposed brick, she scurried into the kitchen, lifted an assortment of vegetables from the cupboard and fridge and extracted a chopping board. Her chopping action was firm and quick, and soon she had chopped onion, sweet pepper, aubergine, carrot and fresh root ginger.

  Sam appeared in the doorway. ‘The diary is interesting. She had a hard life.’

  ‘Have you read anything else about her children?’

  Bits. I have skipped around a bit. Their last child to die was Albert. He died suddenly. I think it was cot death.’

  ‘So neither of them killed him?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. For a while, Catherine blamed herself, saying she never wanted the child and tried to terminate it, but then, later on, she started to wonder if Jack had killed him.’

  ‘Did she have any evidence?’

  ‘No. I think she was just angry . . . steaming off.’

  Her strength grew. She placed rice into a dish, added water, and put it in the microwave oven. Moisture lingered on her hands. She wiped them on the edge of the towel and then moved back to the living room. Sam was reading an entry regarding Marie.

  ‘No matter what I say, nothing can remove the guilt I feel regarding my beautiful little girl. I admit I lost my temper, I admit I shook her in anger, but I did not kill her. I never would.’

  She skimmed across the page, only partially absorbing Catherine’s description of the pleasurable moments she spent with her daughter. The love she displayed was as great as any mother’s love. Blinking free her tears, she checked Sam had finished reading and turned the page.

  ‘After that terrible incident, it took me a while to realise that Marie’s sight was failing. How and why this happened I have no idea. Was it punishment? I pray daily that she will recover and that her sight will return. Regrettably, it doesn’t seem as though I will be rewarded.’

  Michaela stopped reading and looked to Sam. ‘If anyone was cursed it was Catherine. Bad luck seemed to have followed her around.’

  ‘She was lucky that Marie didn’t die straight away.’

  They continued to read.

  ‘Jack talks tirelessly about the shame that has befallen upon the family, but what can I do? Disabled or not, Marie will still grow up to be a credible individual. Jack does not agree. He tells me he will never be able to find her a worthy suitor and that poverty will be bestowed upon her. He even said that the villagers will mock and the good family name will be in jeopardy. That was when I lost my temper. Times are changing, I said, women do not need men, they can work and support themselves. His hand fell upon me.’

  She exhaled. ‘I don’t understand why she stayed with him. I would have been gone in a flash.’

  ‘Where could she go? A difference of opinion would not have granted her a divorce, and even if Jack agreed, she would have been destitute.’

  Just like in Amelia’s book.’

  He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and squeezed. ‘Aren’t you glad you didn’t live one hundred years ago?’

  ‘It could have been us, Sam.’

  He placed a kiss on her cheek. ‘Let’s carry on reading.’

  ‘Marie is now sick. She is
weak, losing weight, and her breathing is strained. Jack looks at her as though it is for the best. I worry for her. I wonder what he will do.’

  Michaela turned the page.

  ‘Her death came quick. It was not a blessing. I cannot look him in the eye. I know he was responsible, I saw him feed her and he never does that, yet in his twisted mind he still blames me.’

  ‘It just gets worse,’ she said, ‘the poor woman. I’m going to finish dinner.’

  The onions simmered in the wok, sizzling and browning, and the deliciously sweet vapours travelled towards her, alluring and luscious. Her mouth watered and her nostrils tingled. She reached for the vegetables and Quorn mince and poured them into the pan. She stirred, added herbs and flavourings, and watched the crispness dissolve. Minutes later, she placed the food onto plates.

  They ate in silence, her mind a whirr. It was difficult to understand how history had recorded the events so inaccurately. There had never been an investigation into Catherine’s death. Her public admission of guilt, combined with Jack’s concurrence, had been enough. Yet if Catherine had not panicked and she had not been suffering from desperation and grief, the outcome may have been different.

  ‘Why do you think she never shared her troubles with Amelia?’ she asked.

  ‘She did, didn’t she? The letter?

  ‘I don’t think she said much. If she had, Amelia would have supported her, for sure.’

  ‘Amelia was successful. Catherine may have been envious of her life.’

  ‘It’s sad she never had anyone else to confide in.’

  He placed his empty plate and fork onto a small table. ‘Perhaps she didn’t have time, with all the household chores to do. This house is quite remote.’

  ‘It’s not that far to walk to the village. She should have made time. It was important.’

  The events rolled around in her head as she tried to piece together Catherine’s life. She was a proud woman. Whether her subservient behaviour was an appropriate way to behave was something to ponder at a later time.