by Sarah Rayne
He waited, and I said, confusedly, ‘But why do you want Isobel Acton to go free now? I don’t see there’s any link.’
‘Oh, don’t be so stupid. Years ago I was afraid of your father talking about my affair with Isobel. Now I’m afraid of Isobel talking about it.’
‘But if they hang her she can’t talk. I’d have thought you’d do everything you could to get her convicted.’
‘George,’ he said, ‘there’s a gap of three weeks before a condemned man or woman is hanged. In those three weeks, Isobel Acton will talk. She’s told me so. Her freedom – her acquittal of murder – is the price of her silence.’ He stepped closer. ‘And,’ he said, ‘your agreement to a Not Guilty verdict, is the price of my silence about your father.’
I gave in. I know it was weak, but I couldn’t bear to think of my father – also my mother – being damaged like that. The judge would do it, as well, I had no doubts about that. He was a very nasty piece of work indeed. He’d spread his story and he’d make it very damning indeed. So I did what Charles Dickens calls ‘shout with the mob’. I shouted with the other jurymen, and I added my vote of Not Guilty.
And Isobel Acton was released as innocent.
Michael put down the notebook and leaned back against the dusty wall of The Pheasant’s attic.
It was remarkable how vividly that courtroom and the people in it came alive. Had the present Poulson read this? Michael was inclined to think not; he thought the long-ago George had probably secreted the notebook away in a cupboard or a bureau, and a little legend had grown up about the Poulson who had been part of the famous local trial. But he put the notebook in his jacket pocket, thinking he would ask Joe Poulson if Nell could read it.
It was still only three o’clock. There was time to see if the local police station had any of their old court records and whether he could look at them. It would be interesting to check George Poulson’s account against the official report. Then he would come back to The Pheasant and he and Nell and Beth could have a cup of tea and decide whether to stay in Caudle Moor until tomorrow.
The very young constable at the police house was helpful. Yes, they had the old records, he said, a long way back, as well.
‘How long back?’ asked Michael.
‘More’n fifty years. Even a hundred, maybe.’ The constable said this with considerable awe, as one to whom even thirty years stretched back to a different era.
Michael said, diffidently, ‘I’m doing a little local research – some of it taking in Stilter House. I wonder if I could have a look at the records. I’d be very careful with them – I’m used to archives and old papers.’ He remembered he had a business card for this kind of situation, and after emptying his pockets and the contents of his wallet, finally found one. It was a bit dog-eared, but the constable took it with reverence, read it with respect, and said that would be quite all right, Dr Flint.
‘We do sometimes get people wanting to look at the old case books and records, so I know it’s all right to let people see the archives. We can’t,’ he said, firmly, as one repeating a carefully learned lesson, ‘allow sight of the recent stuff, of course.’
‘Of course you can’t.’
‘Nothing for the last fifty years. That’s the law.’
‘I’m wanting to go back much further than fifty years,’ said Michael. ‘The 1860s if possible.’
‘The Acton trial,’ said the constable, nodding solemnly. ‘Always a lot of interest in that, well, you might say it’s Caudle’s main claim to fame. Come through to the office, Dr Flint, and I’ll get the screen set up for you. It’s all on computer now, you know. Everything scanned in a while back, and didn’t it take a lot of work, and the sergeant grumbling about the strain on our budget. But I tell him progress is progress.’
The office referred to was a sliver of a room overlooking a tiny patch of ground at the back of the police house. Michael was given a seat at a small desk, with a monitor and keyboard, provided with a cup of coffee, and given the relevant passwords.
He started with the 1900 thread, thinking he would work his way back to Isobel and the 1860s, and as an initial search request typed in Ralph West and Esmond West. He had been expecting to find the scanned-in statements which Ralph and the two servants had made to the police on the night of the intruder, and those certainly opened up. It was odd to see the faded writing on a modern screen. He scrolled down, not expecting there to be more.
But there was.
The heading was, “Statement by Mr Ralph West of Stilter House, regarding the disappearance of his son, Esmond.” The date was the autumn of 1901.
Esmond, thought Michael. Esmond.
He reached for his notebook and pen, and began to read.
NINETEEN
Statement by Mr Ralph West of Stilter House, regarding the disappearance of his son, Esmond.
Statement taken by Sergeant Kiddimore.
I was in my study on the evening of the 20th when Mrs Hatfull, my cook, tapped at the door to ask if Master Esmond – that is, my son – was with me.
‘Why no,’ I said. ‘He’s in bed.’ I was surprised at the question, for Esmond is always in bed by quarter past eight of an evening.
‘That’s just it, sir. He isn’t. I went along of his room just now, and he’s not there.’
‘Bathroom,’ I said, speaking a bit shortly, since one does not refer to that room more than is strictly necessary.
‘He’s not there either,’ said Mrs Hatfull. ‘And I’ve looked all over for him, and so has Dora, and there’s not hide nor hair nor whisker.’
It was a quarter to nine. I was not actually worried, but I was slightly concerned, so I went up to the bedroom myself. It is not that I distrusted Mrs Hatfull, but I wanted to make sure. Esmond’s room was in order, the sheets turned back as if he had been in bed, but had folded them down to get out. Beneath one window was the small desk he uses for the work set him by Mr Bundy, his tutor. I examined this in case Esmond had gone off somewhere and left a note. He is a good, biddable child, not given to wandering off, but it was possible he had read some tale of adventure and wanted to emulate it.
But there was nothing on the desk save his copy of Charles Kingsley’s The Water Babies, which is his favourite book, some notes for a nature study essay, and several drawings similar to some he had done for Sir William Minching during a consultation last year. The drawings were all on what Sir William had called the same theme. A child seated at a piano, and the shadowy outline of a female framed in the French windows behind him. I had disliked the original drawings when Minching showed them to me, and I was sorry to see Esmond was still drawing in the same way, for they seemed to indicate a preoccupation with his dead mother. My wife was a gifted pianist and Esmond has her talent for music. She would play to him for hours on end and he loved listening. Sir William had propounded the rather fantastical notion that Esmond was trying to reach his mother and that he believed he could do so through music. I never paid this theory much heed – children derive many over-imaginative ideas from books. However, it may be a factor in his disappearance, so I record it here for the police to use as they think fit.
I and my two servants searched the house and the gardens, but found no trace of my son. Accordingly, I called the local police, and Sergeant Kiddimore and his men made a further and very thorough search, helped by several local people. No trace of Esmond has yet been found, and he has now been missing for more than twenty-four hours.
So Esmond really did vanish one dark and stormy night, thought Michael, sitting back from the screen for a moment. Nell, my love, it’s looking as if you owe me that dinner at Il Forno’s.
But why had Esmond vanished? Was there any link to that disturbing statement Esmond had made to Sir William Minching? The Eyes told me I must never speak . . . How much of that was a child’s over-imaginative vision? Or was it possible that Esmond really had seen his mother murdered, and had been put out of the way before he could incriminate someone? Was that someone Ralph? Had
Ralph engineered the search for his son, all the time knowing he could not be found? But where had Esmond gone? And how?
Too many questions, thought Michael, and probably no means of finding answers to them. He scrolled down to the next statement.
Statement made by Mrs Martha Hatfull, Cook and Housekeeper at Stilter House, Gorsty Lane, Caudle Moor.
Statement taken by Sergeant Kiddimore.
I found that Master Esmond was missing just after half past eight on Tuesday night, when I went along of his room with his hot milk and biscuit, which he has every night, generally reading one of his storybooks while he eats and drinks it, although his father don’t know about that, it being a little secret me and Master Esmond have, and me leaving a night light burning under a shade.
The master said most likely Master Esmond had wandered off thinking he was in one of his storybook adventures. So me and Dora went all over the house, then the master fetched the oil lamps so we could look in the gardens. Just as we was putting on our coats Mr Samuel Burlap came to the house, saying the master had asked him to do a job of work on one of the garden walls, and he had brought along his figuring. I answered the door, although it not being my job, but everything so topsy-turvy, and I said, ‘Oh, Mr Burlap, there’s trouble in the house and the master can’t see you.’
But the master heard, and said Mr Burlap should come in, asking if he would help look for the boy, two pairs of eyes being better than one. So we all set off round the gardens with bullseye lamps and candles, calling out as we went. The worrying thing was that Master Esmond don’t never speak, so even if was lying somewhere he couldn’t call for help. But we shouted anyway.
The master was dreadfully upset, white and sick with worry, and him having lost his poor wife not two year since as I understand it, not that I knew the lady for I only come to work for Mr West after he lived in Caudle Moor. But a very gentle-faced lady she was if her photograph can be trusted, which the master keeps in the dining room.
We got back in the house just after ten o’clock, and the master sent for the police.
Statement by Mr Samuel Burlap, Builder of Caudle Moor.
Statement taken by Sergeant Kiddimore.
I am Samuel Burlap, master builder, and I called at Stilter House with some costings for Mr Ralph West on Tuesday evening, and was told of his son’s disappearance. At once I volunteered to help with searching for the boy, for Mr West was in an extremely anxious state. I was very pleased to offer my help and Mr West was grateful.
I had seen Master Esmond West while the house was being built, but only from a distance, for I had told Mr West that a building site can be a dangerous place for a child, and had asked him, very respectfully, to keep the boy away while we were working. However, I was very happy to offer my services with the search, although, sadly, I had to tell Mr West and later Sergeant Kiddimore that I had found no sign of Master Esmond anywhere.
Burlap again, thought Michael, leaning back and considering the statement. He seems to find his way into every layer of this story. He read all the statements again, because he had a vague feeling of something slightly out of kilter. Then he realized what it was. Martha Hatfull said Ralph West had asked Burlap to help search, but Burlap stated he had volunteered of his own accord. It was only a tiny thing, and probably it was simply that Burlap wanted to appear in a favourable light. I’m seeing nefarious deeds and hidden purposes where none exist, thought Michael, and scrolled down to see if there were any more statements.
There was only one, and that was by Sergeant Kiddimore. It was dated one week after the report of Esmond’s disappearance, and simply said, ‘Stilter House and grounds searched by Caudle Moor constabulary and several local men under my direction. All the lanes surrounding Stilter House also searched, each one several times. Hedges and ditches carefully inspected, and two duck ponds dragged.
Description and photograph of Esmond West sent to all police stations in the county and all railway stations. This description will be sent every two months and a request for a new search made each time. The case to be kept open until new information received.’
Several notes were added below this, by way of update. The dates were at two-month intervals, confirming that the description had again been sent, and that Caudle Moor and its neighbouring villages had been searched each time. The last of these updates was in 1904. After that there was nothing. Was that because Esmond had turned up, or because the police had simply given up?
It was half past three. Half an hour to make one or two more searches before meeting Nell. What would be most useful? How about Esmond’s mother? Had there been something wrong about her death? Might it be connected to Esmond’s disappearance? In the papers found in the music stool, Ralph had said something about no one in Caudle Moor suspecting what was in Esmond’s past. With that memory came another – that of Ralph writing how the solicitors had had difficulty in tracing the ownership of the land, but that a relative had eventually been found. Did that suggest Ralph had some knowledge of the Acton family? But even if so, was it relevant?
Michael went out to ask if it would be in order for him to access the Internet on the station’s computer and received an eager assent.
‘Thank you,’ said Michael, and returned to the monitor.
He was fairly sure there were registrars’ records which could be accessed, and even parish records. He had no idea what these sites were called, and for a moment he considered phoning Owen Bracegirdle, who always knew how to find things and track down old records. But Owen might be anywhere or involved in anything, so Michael, not very optimistically, tried typing in the name of Ralph West, and the words ‘marriage’. Then he added import and export of china, which had been Ralph’s profession, and Derby as a possible place. This brought forth what looked like several thousand results, but Michael managed to narrow things down, and to discard the more unlikely ones. After exploring some frustrating cul-de-sacs, more by luck than judgement he found a site for HM Registrar’s Department, which took him to various marriages and where he could request searches within five-year periods. Ten minutes and several abortive attempts later, he found an entry whose wording seemed almost to leap from the screen and punch him.
‘Ralph West, bachelor, importer and exporter of china and porcelain, married Julia Margaret Susskind, spinster, in the county of Derbyshire, 1888.’
Susskind, thought Michael. Susskind. He rummaged for his notebook and the scribbled notes he had made earlier in The Pheasant’s attic. That name had been in the indictment, he was sure of it. Yes, here it was.
‘The Crown, for our lady the Queen, by the Grace of God, presents and charges that the defendant, Isobel Mary Acton, née Susskind, did kill and murder her husband.’
The corrupt judge had mentioned the name as well when he bribed George Poulson. Michael made a further search in his notes, turning pages, fielding several inserts that fell out, wondering how other people seemed able to arrange their research so neatly. Here it was, and he was right. ‘All that Susskind brood were willing,’ the judge had said.
Michael closed the notebook thoughtfully. Susskind. It was the same family. It had to be. Susskind wasn’t a name you’d trip across every day of the week, not in an English village in the nineteenth century. It sounded foreign, in fact.
So. So Ralph’s wife had been related to the alluring murderess of Caudle Moor. It was a curious link to discover, but, again, was it a relevant link? Had Julia Susskind, who became Julia West, also been willing in the same way as Isobel? Had she been killed by a jealous husband who had caught her with a lover? I’m straying into the realms of fantasy, thought Michael, impatiently. It’s more likely that Julia was a respectable Victorian matron, and after her death Ralph simply wanted to come to a place where she had connections – even though those connections might be somewhat unsavoury. But Isobel had been acquitted. There was nothing unsavoury about being wrongly accused and honourably exonerated. Or had there been then? That had been a time when people’s outlooks
and values had been vastly different.
None of this took Michael any nearer to finding out what had happened to Esmond. He looked back at the screen where the Registrar’s website was still open, and typed in a search request for a death entry for Esmond West, between the years 1901 and 1906.
There was nothing. Michael tried the next five years, then the next, which took him up to the start of the Great War. He tried again for the final years of it and the years following. Again nothing.
It was possible that Esmond had lived to a ripe old age, and his death was recorded much later. But if that had been so, Emily West, that diligent chronicler and keeper of family records, would have mentioned it. Charlotte, too, would have known. Which lead to the inescapable conclusion that Esmond had vanished and his body had never been found.
Michael wrote down the details of Isobel and the Susskind connection and folded them firmly into his wallet so they would not become mixed up with the miscellany in the notebook. By now it was four o’clock, so he logged off, went out to thank the helpful constable, and set off back to The Pheasant.
Nell was glad that Beth was keen to return to Stilter House. As they drove down Gorsty Lane, Beth talked about the photograph they were going to take at the piano, exuberantly planning how they would do it.
‘I’ll sit ezzackerly as Dad sat, and it’ll be the same photo, but with me instead of him. And we’ll get a really cool silver frame for it.’
‘We’ll get bankrupted if we aren’t careful,’ said Nell, smiling. ‘But we’ll see if Mr Jessel has anything when we get home.’
‘I thought I’d ask Sergeant Howe if I could take a photo of him as well,’ said Beth. ‘He said he’d be at the house this afternoon, and I don’t expect he’ll mind. Then I’ll send it to Ellie. They don’t have policemen like ours in Maryland, so it’d be really good.’
But when they reached the house there did not seem to be any sign of Sergeant Howe’s reassuring figure. Nell hesitated, but the sergeant was most likely around somewhere. In any case, in the afternoon light Stilter House had emerged from its mysterious and haunted mood and come out into the sunshine like the sunken church in the fabled Island of Ys that was said to rise up from the sea on clear mornings. Even the gate, when Beth opened it, creaked in a friendly way that might almost be saying, Welcome. Brad, I can see why you liked it here, thought Nell, parking in front of the house. With the thought she had the sudden comforting sensation of someone quite close to her smiling approvingly. She waited, but nothing happened, and she thought if there were ghosts here they were only ghosts in her own mind.