A Christmas Return

by Anne Perry

  Now he was back. How did old, plain, charmless Mariah Ellison imagine she was going to stop him?

  Even as she finished the thought, instead of self-pity or even anger, a clear answer came into her mind: exactly because she was old and plain and had no charm at all, he would take her lightly. He was too arrogant to be afraid of her! That was the one card she had, and if she played it cleverly enough, it could be sufficient to win.

  She got up, washed and dressed, necessarily in the outer clothes she had worn the day before, but they were perfectly acceptable. She went down to the dining room for breakfast and found Peter waiting for her. He stood to welcome her and pull out her chair.

  “Are you all right?” he asked with some concern.

  “Do I look unwell?” she replied a little more sharply than she had intended. In fact, she had something of a headache.

  “No, you look fine,” he replied with his sudden, charming smile. “But so do I, and I feel very rough around the edges.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.” She meant it. She had temporarily forgotten that Cullen had been the grandfather he had loved all his childhood, when his own parents had been lost so soon. She had not given enough thought to his feelings, or to the fact that he surely needed this clearing of Cullen’s name even more than she or Rowena did.

  “I plan to go and see Mrs. Johnson this morning,” she told him, with as much good cheer as she could manufacture. “I think I might get further with her if I see her alone. Whatever she has to say, it could embarrass her to say it in front of a young man. You would not mean to intimidate her, but you might still do so. If I am right, then it was your family that was injured by her silence.” She wished she could add something more to what she said.

  “How are you going to get there?” he asked. “Would you not prefer that I accompany you? Or if necessary we could hire some conveyance?” His concern was unmistakable in his eyes.

  “Thank you, that would be very pleasant,” she accepted. “But I believe it is not very far. Then I shall walk back when I am satisfied I can learn no more from her.”

  “Then I will walk with you.” It was a statement, not an offer.

  “Thank you,” she said graciously.

  It was actually a good mile’s walk, but this day was sunny and the center of the path, where others had already trodden in the grit, was safe if one took care.

  They spoke of other things on the journey. She asked him about his life, his work, his pleasures, and she found herself liking him more and more with each answer. But she still could not allow him to come into the house. It was true that his presence might well deter Mrs. Johnson from speaking of things that were sad and embarrassing, but quite apart from that, Mariah intended to press this woman very hard to tell the truth, and she would use any means required to achieve that. Some of them she would rather Peter did not see. There was no time left for restraint. Apart from protecting Rowena now and gaining justice, for two dead girls and for Cullen, there was the matter of seeing Durward arrested and thus prevented from continuing to do such things. That was the most important of all.

  And another thought came, hostile as ice—who else might there have been that they did not know of? Had he really been restrained, hurt no one, over the twenty years since Christina? Stopping him now was immeasurably more important than settling the past. Her husband had never changed, his cruelty and need to hurt, to dominate, had never lessened. But she refused to allow that thought anymore. She was able, for the first time in her life, to push away the humiliation. Now she was a fighter, standing up for the oppressed and ill-used and those two girls who had lost everything.

  When they arrived at the Johnson home, Mariah thanked Peter and watched him walk away, and then she knocked on the front door. She barely glanced around the garden. It was winter, bare earth, a couple of laurel bushes, mounds beneath, which must be dormant roots of perennials that would come forth in the spring. The door opened and a handsome woman of about fifty stood looking at her with surprise.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Johnson,” Mariah said courteously. She must not allow her tension to show; it would alarm the woman, as it should. “You have been recommended to me by both the vicar’s wife and the constable’s wife, for some advice.”

  “Oh, really?” Mrs. Johnson looked startled, but not at all displeased. She stepped back to allow Mariah to come in, then led the way through to the kitchen, where she had clearly been busy. She offered Mariah a seat, which she accepted. A very large pail stood on the bench near the sink, and potato peelings, cabbage stalks and broken eggshells lay around it. There were also some old carrot skins and what could have been turnip peelings.

  Mrs. Johnson saw Mariah’s glance. “I was about to feed the chickens,” she explained. “And collect the eggs.”

  “I’m sorry to disturb you,” Mariah said. Then an idea came to her. She dared not think of it too clearly or she could find too many reasons not to suggest it. But sharing a task incurred friendship, obligation, kindness more than merely presenting good manners. “Perhaps I could help?” she offered.

  Mrs. Johnson was taken aback. There was a certain pride in her face, a pleasure, not a haughtiness. “Thank you.” She looked Mariah up and down, from her handsome dark winter coat with its fur trimmings to her polished black boots. She was an old woman, but she had always had trim ankles, and one of her indulgences was well-cut boots. Elegant would not be an exaggeration.

  “I’d hate you to get those handsome boots soiled,” Mrs. Johnson said, shaking her head.

  “Nonsense! They clean very well.” Trying to hide the effort, and a little stiffness from too much walking of late, Mariah rose from the kitchen chair. “I would be delighted to help. Perhaps it will save an extra journey for you.” She averted her eyes from the pail and the mess on the chopping board.

  “Thank you,” Mrs. Johnson accepted. “I must admit it gets heavy at times, and it’s always pleasant to have company. Where do you come from, Mrs. Ellison? Have you just moved into Brocklehurst?”

  Mariah was prepared to bide her time. She would have only this one chance. If she spoiled it, there would not be another.

  “No, I am just visiting. I have dear friends in Haslemere.” She looked at the mess in the pail, to which Mrs. Johnson was now adding the pieces of vegetable on the bench. “Do chickens really eat all these?” she asked.

  “Oh, bless you, yes. I’ll add some grain, of course, but all this is good for them. A bit of everything is what makes the eggs so good.”

  Mariah listened as Mrs. Johnson described the merits of different kinds of chickens. She knew many of her birds by individual name as well as breed. She mixed the mash vigorously, added some very hot water, then put it all into two pails, and went to the door once more. Mariah picked up the other pail and followed her, trying very hard not to let her skirt rub against the exterior of the pail and its stains of usage.

  The air outside was sharp but still bright, and she was careful where she put her feet on the stepping stones down the garden path to the henhouse and the wire-enclosed space around it. Apparently chickens had an urgent desire to escape.

  “Now…in there.” Mrs. Johnson indicated a wooden trough. First she tipped the contents of her own pail into it, and there was a wild scuffle of chickens, feathers and hysterical squawking, followed by some sort of order as the birds fought each other for the food.

  “There.” Mrs. Johnson indicated another empty trough, and Mariah tipped up her pail to fill it. She had not counted on the excitement of the birds. One flew from a high perch, somewhere above her line of sight, and banged into her. She dropped the pail and it turned upside down on her feet. Seconds later she was attacked on all sides by birds diving and charging each other to get the scraps. Mariah had a moment’s panic, then told herself, with disgust, not to be frightened by a flock of chickens. She managed not to cry out.

  “Oh dear,” Mrs. Johnson said patiently. “I’m afraid they’re a bit…a bit greedy. Stop it!” she commanded with conside
rable authority. “Goldie! Stop it! Big Red!” She called a few more by name, which, as far as Mariah could see, had no effect at all. But generally they moved to the troughs and relative peace returned.

  “That’s better,” Mrs. Johnson said approvingly. Then she looked at Mariah. “Would you like to help me collect the eggs? While they’re all busy eating is the best time.”

  Mariah looked at the long, sharp beaks of the hens, and the longer and even sharper claws on their feet. “Of course,” she answered in a voice a little higher than usual.

  It was a highly hazardous affair, but they found over a dozen warm brown eggs, all of handsome size, and escaped with no more than straw in their skirts, a few marks of hot, wet meal and a couple of scratches.

  Back in the kitchen, Mrs. Johnson put the kettle on and, while it was coming to a boil, carefully placed half a dozen of the new eggs into a small basket for Mariah. She put the rest into a bin with a wooden lid.

  “Oh,” she exclaimed when she saw Mariah’s surprise. “My white cat loves to fish for them with his paw and fling them around. All the ones that break, he eats. Cats are great egg thieves, you know. Now, what is it Bessie thinks I can help you with?” She turned away to take the kettle off the hob and make the tea.

  It gave Mariah a moment to clear her thoughts. The chickens had put the whole issue out of her mind. The woman had been kind. Mariah had already formed a liking for her. Such informal ease was unlike the acquaintances she had in the city, and she was loath to break it cruelly.

  “I have been staying in Haslemere with an old friend,” she began, knowing she could not dither around indefinitely. The matter was urgent, and terrible. It would be so much easier to give up now. She could really say that she had tried. She must commit herself, so she could not turn back. “Mrs. Rowena Wesley,” she went on. “She is going through a very difficult time. Twenty years ago this Christmas, her husband, Cullen Wesley, was murdered. I daresay you heard of it at the time?”

  Mrs. Johnson froze, her back stiff, the kettle in her hand half poured into the teapot. “Yes,” she said after what seemed like seconds had gone by. “It was very dreadful.”

  “It is all being raised again,” Mariah continued. “And the unkindest of people are suggesting that she was to blame.”

  Mrs. Johnson put the kettle down slowly, paying attention to what she was doing, in case she scalded herself. Finally, she turned to face Mariah. The color had drained from her cheeks. “Why would they say that? Wasn’t he…defending Owen Durward? Surely they can’t blame her for that? It was his job!”

  “Of course it was,” Mariah agreed quickly. “But he visited Brocklehurst, spending the whole day here, and he learned something that made him change his mind. The next day he told Durward that he could not continue. Then he was murdered.” She watched Mrs. Johnson’s face closely, every shadow of pain, memory, and fear that crossed it.

  “That is terrible,” Mrs. Johnson said hoarsely. “But why would she do that?”

  “She wouldn’t,” Mariah agreed. “It was Durward who suggested a reason.”

  Mrs. Johnson was pasty white now. She swallowed. “What could that be? I don’t understand.”

  Mariah smiled as gently as she could. She felt a pity toward this woman that was almost overwhelming. She even considered stopping, but only for an instant. Rowena needed help, and more importantly to Mariah, Peter believed in her.

  “I think you might,” she said. “She told me, with much shame now, that once she…flirted with him, perhaps unwisely.” She saw the scarlet rise in Mrs. Johnson’s cheeks and ignored it. “Durward exaggerated it enormously and told her husband a complete untruth about the incident. Indeed, he said that she had offered herself to him, and he had been repulsed by the idea. And Durward said it was in revenge for that, and because of his own feeling of inadequacy, that Cullen Wesley declined to represent Durward at his trial.”

  It was several moments before Mrs. Johnson responded.

  “That is terrible,” she said huskily, barely able to speak.

  “Yes, it is,” Mariah agreed. “But he is a terrible man.”

  “But this was not…”

  “Not why Cullen would not defend him? Of course not,” Mariah agreed. “He knew Durward was lying. He came here to Brocklehurst. He found out about the rape and murder of the girl here, in exactly the same fashion as the crime committed at Haslemere. And that although Durward had done it, he had escaped by blackmailing a decent but vulnerable woman into swearing that he was elsewhere, with her, at the time. Since he was a doctor—still is, as far as I know—it was quite believable. No one thought ill of her for it.”

  Mrs. Johnson sank into the chair closest to her, leaving the full teapot on the side of the stove. She looked close to collapse and seemed still unable to speak.

  Mariah’s mind was racing, filled with rage and grief for what Durward had done to so many people, and fear that she now had to continue to shame this woman, or let him go free.

  “I daresay she thought only of whom she was protecting,” she went on. “And perhaps she even believed he was falsely accused. One time, it would be believable. But twice?” She hesitated, reluctant, but knowing she must finish. “The murder of Christina Abbott, five years later, was exactly the same.” She lowered her voice a little. “Except that Cullen Wesley linked the two crimes and so he had to be killed, and his wife blamed by the village, even if not by the law. That too has gone down as an unsolved crime.”

  Mrs. Johnson raised her head. “But no more girls…children…?”

  “I don’t know,” Mariah admitted. “He had not been in the area. But he has come back to clear his name, because he wishes to marry there, to a woman of considerable means.”

  Mrs. Johnson shook her head slowly, processing a situation for which she could find no words.

  Mariah could not let it go. “Appetites like that don’t go away,” she said, even more softly. “My husband had such…hungers. Fortunately they were not for young girls, and did not lead to murder. His violence toward me was sufficient for him.”

  Mrs. Johnson looked up. Her eyes were filled with misery. “What is it you want of me? I can’t undo what has been done.”

  “None of us can do that,” Mariah agreed, gently now. “If we could, perhaps we all would. I would! But we can balance the scales a little. We can save Rowena Wesley from blame, and more urgently, we can stop Durward from continuing to prosper and perhaps killing more girls. That would be at our door, because we have the power to stop him now.”

  Mrs. Johnson lifted her hands helplessly, as though she were warding off a blow that might render her dizzy and disoriented. She looked stunned.

  “At least we can try!” Mariah insisted. “Alone, I may well fail. We may even fail together, but we will have done all we can. Are you willing to come with me?”

  “I suppose I must,” Mrs. Johnson said quietly. “You won’t let me stay away, will you?”

  “No,” Mariah agreed. “But you will not be alone. You may have been, in the long time afterward, when you could have acted and it was too late.” It was harsh, and she meant it to be. She had too many years of regret not to understand the useless, relentless pain of it. “Not everyone gets a second chance. Don’t let that go by too.”

  Mrs. Johnson nodded.

  Mariah smiled at her, then stood up and went over to the stove to bring the teapot and cups and a small jug of milk to the table.

  Peter and Mariah returned to Haslemere that afternoon, catching the second train. She had told him over lunch in a private parlor at the inn all about her visit with Mrs. Johnson, and there was no more to be said now.

  She sat opposite him in an otherwise empty carriage. The rhythm of the wheels over the rail ties was soothing. Mariah would have liked to relax into it, even gone to sleep. She had not rested well through the night: old memories had come back, filled with fear and physical pain, and above all shame. But if she let sleep overcome her now, she would dream. Better to watch the country
side, even through the rain that streaked the windows.

  “We must plan very carefully,” she said to Peter. “We will only get one chance.”

  “I know,” he said, looking very directly at her. “And that also means that we have to have an alternative plan, should Mrs. Johnson fail to step forward.”

  That was the fear at the back of Mariah’s mind. In the past, she herself had resolved to reach out and do something about her husband, threaten him that she would make his obsessive tastes public. In the end, she had lost her courage, remained silent, and been punished for her insolence for having dared to threaten him. She could understand so easily Mrs. Johnson’s reluctance, but it would be her stepping forward that would finally end the injustice. There were three unsolved deaths. What else had happened in the twenty years since Cullen’s death they did not know. What might happen in the future lay very heavily on Mariah’s mind, because preventing more deaths lay within her grasp. Surrender was not acceptable, whatever the cost.

  “I don’t think she will fail,” Mariah said. Then she went on rashly, “But if she does, I will speak for her, and I will make them believe me. Of course, that will not heal her wound of guilt, which is what I told her. Peter, we must proceed as if we know we will win. Durward can scent fear and doubt as a dog scents such things, and it will strengthen him. We must be equal to him, at the very least, in courage and determination.”

  He smiled with sudden warmth. “Aunt Mariah, you are the equal of anyone in determination, and I think in courage also.”

  She blushed, something she had not done in years. Nothing on earth could stop her from living up to his estimation. She was too full of emotion even to thank him.

  “Oh, no!” Rowena said, aghast, when they told her of their plan. “I can’t! I’d…” Then she flushed pink.

  They were in the sitting room beside the fire, wearing fresh clothes and dry boots, hot tea and shortbread on the table.

  “Yes, you can,” Mariah responded. “If you can’t endure a little embarrassment in order to clear Cullen’s name—and of course your own in the minds of those who imagine it was you who killed him—and bring justice and some sense of resolution to the families that lost their daughters, not to mention preventing Durward from going on to do it again—”