The Snow Angel

by Lulu Taylor

  ‘All right,’ grumbled the girl. ‘I’m going.’ She got up and made her way slowly to the back door to put on her boots and coat.

  ‘Go!’ ordered her mother, and Maggie went out of the door, slamming it shut behind her.

  Ursula turned back to Cressie. ‘What’s all this then, miss? Is there trouble?’

  ‘Yes. I’m afraid there is. Please come with me.’ As they went back up the passage and then the stairs, Cressie said, ‘Mr Few’s sister is here. She’s not well at all – in her head, I mean. She’s locked herself in the studio and gone berserk, and I’m worried that she’s a danger to us all.’

  ‘Mr Few’s sister?’ breathed Ursula, her expression concerned as she came up the stairs behind Cressie. ‘But why?’

  ‘Please understand that I can’t explain. The main thing is that I think we have to get the door open. Mr Few is ill in bed and can’t help us. I don’t want to worry him. Will you help me?’ She gazed at Ursula, her eyes pleading. ‘Please!’

  ‘Very well,’ Ursula said, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘Let’s see what we can do.’

  At the door, they stopped to listen. The same awful sound was coming from behind it, a bubbling growl coming every few seconds.

  ‘Miss, let’s open this,’ Ursula said urgently after a moment. She twisted the handle and tried to push the door but the sofa was jammed against it on the inside. ‘Come along, we’ll need both of us to get enough strength together to shift this door.’

  The two of them pushed hard, pressing their shoulders to the wood and giving it all their effort. It took several tries before the door began to give, the sofa behind the door scraping across the floor.

  ‘Come on now!’ cried Ursula. ‘We’re nearly there! Nearly. Another good shove . . .’

  Cressie gathered all she had and pressed against the door, her teeth clenching with the effort. Then the sofa shifted a few feet over the boards and the door opened far enough that they could slip in.

  ‘Oh miss!’ Ursula said as they entered, turning to Cressie with frightened eyes. ‘Oh miss!’

  The studio was a shambles, the floor littered with everything that could possibly have been thrown on it. The walls were smeared with a filthy rainbow of colour in streaks and lines and daubs. The canvases were ripped and torn, some slashed and anointed with paint. Brushes lay scattered everywhere, along with palette knives, pencils and anything else Catherine could reach. A bottle of white spirit had been emptied into the mess and the stench was strong. In the middle of it all lay the prone body of Catherine.

  Cressie rushed over. ‘Catherine!’ she cried. ‘What have you done?’

  Catherine’s eyes were shut and her skin had a ghastly pallor. The awful bubbling growl came from her throat and now Cressie understood why. Around her lips and mouth was a horrible white mess, bubbling with spittle. In her hand was a large tube of white paint.

  ‘What is it?’ Ursula said, recoiling in horror at the sight. ‘What’s happened?’

  Cressie was stunned, a sick horror climbing up from her belly. ‘Oh Catherine,’ she whispered. She turned to Ursula. ‘She’s eaten the paint! Look, she’s sliced open the tube and she’s eaten it! She’s poisoned herself in the same way she poisoned Ralph.’ Panic ran through her. ‘We must get a doctor, Ursula! You must go at once and get one.’

  The other woman stood and stared down at Catherine with horrified eyes. She didn’t move.

  ‘Didn’t you hear me, Ursula? You must fetch the doctor at once!’

  Ursula moved her gaze to Cressie’s. ‘Oh miss, it’s too late for the doctor. I can see that she’s too far gone for that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Her panic grew. ‘Oh no! We can’t let her die! We must help her.’ She dropped to her knees by Catherine and took her in her arms, trying to dig the paint out of her mouth with her fingers. There was so much of it; Catherine’s throat seemed full of white gunk, paint mixed with the bile her body had thrown up to try and be rid of it. ‘Catherine, you mustn’t die . . .’

  As she tried to free the other woman’s mouth, Catherine’s eyes opened. They were blank and unseeing and then they moved to Cressie’s face and for a moment she thought she saw recognition there, but then the grey eyes rolled backwards, and closed. The bubbling growl turned into a choke. Catherine’s chest convulsed and then she froze. The next instant, all breath left her and she relaxed heavily into Cressie’s arms.

  Shocked, Cressie held her, staring down at her. ‘Catherine?’ she said almost wonderingly.

  ‘Oh, Miss Cressida,’ Ursula said, kneeling down beside them. ‘This is terrible. I’m afraid she’s dead.’

  ‘Dead?’ Cressie looked back at Catherine’s face. ‘How is it possible? What shall we do?’

  ‘We must tell someone, I suppose,’ Ursula said. ‘Perhaps you’re right, the doctor must be called. He’ll be able to certify it. He’ll know what to do.’ She got up.

  ‘Wait.’ Cressie looked up at her, suddenly thinking very fast. ‘We can’t tell anyone what’s happened.’

  ‘Why not?’ Ursula frowned. ‘We must.’

  ‘But . . .’ Cressie looked ahead into the future, at the inevitable scandal. She and Ralph would be parted, perhaps forever. A death at the house. The uncovering of everything that Catherine and Ralph had done, a terrible stain on his character and on his work. And Ralph himself – how would he not blame himself for what Catherine had done?

  ‘This is awful,’ Cressie said in a low voice, almost to herself. Catherine had had a brilliant revenge, she saw that. She had made it impossible for Cressie to be with Ralph in any normal way.

  But . . . only we know about this. Only Ursula and I. Does the world have to know? After all, everyone believes that Catherine is Ralph’s wife. What if . . . what if . . .

  She looked down at the woman whose body lay in her arms, still warm. Was it possible? An awful fear mixed with a determination filled her. It was almost too much to think of and yet . . . She gazed up again at Ursula.

  ‘This is a terrible accident,’ she said intensely. ‘If word of it gets out . . . everything here would come to an end. Please, Ursula. Let me think. Let me work something out. I don’t want Ralph to know yet either. He’s very ill. The shock of this could harm him very badly.’

  There was a pause as Ursula took this in and then the older woman said, ‘Do I understand, miss, that you’re thinking of a course of action that doesn’t involve the doctor coming at all?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ Cressie burst out. It was all too much, too dreadful. She didn’t know what to do; all she knew was that for now, it had to remain a secret until she could clear her mind enough to find an answer.

  Ursula stepped towards her and put gentle hands on her shoulders. ‘Put her down, miss,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing more you can do for her now.’

  Cressie lowered Catherine to the floor and laid her there softly. She stared at her, still unable to take in what had happened. ‘I think she felt too guilty to go on,’ she said at last. ‘Knowing that she’d harmed Ralph. It’s as though she wanted to take his place.’

  ‘Miss . . .’ Ursula coaxed her up gently. ‘Please, Miss Cressida, go and wash your hands at once.’

  Cressida looked down at her paint-smeared hands, thick rims of white under her nails. ‘Yes,’ she said almost dreamily. ‘Yes, I must.’

  The reality of the situation took a long time to sink in. Ralph lay upstairs asleep, still unaware of what had happened. Catherine’s body remained in the paint-covered studio.

  Downstairs, Cressie explained as much as she could to Ursula, who listened solemnly. As Cressie talked, she became more and more convinced that no one could know what had happened to Catherine.

  ‘But they must,’ Ursula pointed out. ‘Even apart from the law, won’t someone miss her?’

  ‘But there’s no family – an uncle who couldn’t care less about them, that’s all. And anyone else who knows them believes that Ralph and Catherine were married.’ She gazed fervently at Ursula. ‘I
have to stay with him. I have to be a wife to him myself. But the scandal would destroy us, my father would force us apart, Ralph’s career would be over. I can’t let that happen to him. It would kill him, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘So you’re saying that no one will miss her,’ Ursula said. ‘That’s a very sad thing. The poor lady.’

  ‘I know. But there must be a way that will help us all. Nothing much will hurt Catherine now.’

  Ursula looked shocked. ‘Are you saying you’d deny the lady a good Christian burial?’

  Cressie reached out and grasped Ursula’s hand. ‘It might be necessary, Ursula. Would you help me?’ She stared into the other woman’s eyes, half wondering where her own cold-blooded determination was coming from.

  I’ll do whatever is necessary to save Ralph and me, and keep us together.

  ‘I don’t know, miss, it seems very wrong.’ Ursula looked distressed. ‘I know it is wrong.’

  ‘Wrong in a way . . . but we’re not killing her. You heard me – I wanted a doctor for her, I wanted to help her! She’s past all caring now, don’t you see? But she could still hurt me, if what’s happened here is revealed. I know it seems wrong, but really, it isn’t. It’s the best thing for us all. Honestly.’

  Ursula stared at the table. Cressie wondered if she was wrestling with questions of faith – whether she believed it was wrong to deny a religious service to Catherine’s body.

  ‘Ursula,’ she said. ‘Please help me. You won’t regret it.’

  At last, Ursula raised her eyes to Cressie’s. She took a deep breath. ‘I’ll help you, miss. You’re a good person, and I loved your dear mother. I’ll help you for her sake.’

  Relief coursed through Cressie’s body. ‘Thank you.’

  After a long pause, Ursula said, ‘Do you intend to bury her?’

  Cressie flinched at the words. They sounded so coldblooded. They didn’t reflect the truth of her situation, the great stakes she was playing for. But how could it be expressed? ‘I think so,’ she said. ‘I think that’s the only way.’

  Gruesome images crossed her mind, of murderers melting bodies in baths of acid, or chopping them up with axes. That’s not me. I’m not like that. We’ll respect her.

  ‘I see.’ There was a pause while Ursula thought. ‘It’s cold, miss. The ground is hard. I take it it would be just you and me?’

  Cressie nodded. Ralph would not know. He could not. She would tell him that she and Catherine had talked and that she saw sense and left, promising never to return.

  Ursula said, ‘What about Perkins’s pit?’

  Cressie stared at her. Perkins, the odd-job man, had dug a pit by the old fence, for what purpose no one really knew. He’d dug it and then left it, the soil in a mound beside it, where it had begun to sprout grass. It was still there. ‘Of course. Perkins’s pit is the answer.’

  ‘Then we’d better start right away.’

  They went out to inspect the pit in the freezing morning air. There was no one about. A shiver of horror went up Cressie’s spine as she looked at the cold black mud where they would lay Catherine.

  She’ll rot in there alone.

  It was an awful thought. Then she reproved herself. She’s dead. I didn’t kill her. I just want to prevent her from harming us ever again.

  ‘That’s where we’ll put her,’ Cressie said. She looked over at the pile of stony soil, frosted into hardness. ‘That’s what we’ll cover her with.’

  Ursula nodded. ‘That’ll be best.’

  ‘Let’s do it now.’

  ‘Better to wait until later,’ Ursula said. ‘Just in case we’re seen.’

  ‘All right,’ Cressie said reluctantly. She wanted it over now. The knowledge that Catherine still lay on the floor of the studio, waiting for her grave, was filling her mind with fear and horror. It was too much to bear, even with Ursula sharing the burden of the secret.

  Once she’s buried, I’ll be free of it. Ralph and I can be together.

  Cressie had the sudden thought that she would never be free now, but she pushed it away. There was work to do.

  Later that day, she went to see Ralph, taking him some soup.

  He’d been sleeping, his exhausted body conserving his strength to fight the illness inside him. He struggled to sit up and could only sip a few mouthfuls.

  ‘Catherine?’ he asked through dry lips. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘She left, my darling,’ Cressie said in a soothing voice. ‘She became very sensible. She understands what she’s done to you and has agreed to leave us in peace. It’s all going to be absolutely fine now.’

  Ralph seemed to relax. ‘Really?’

  Cressie nodded. ‘Yes. We’re going to be happy. That’s all that matters.’

  When he was settled again, she left him to sleep.

  They waited until dusk had come and then they wrapped Catherine in old sheets and carried her between them down the stairs and out into the garden. She was cold and very heavy, much more difficult to carry than Cressie had imagined. The work was terrible, and the noise of getting the body out of the studio and down the stairs very loud. Surely Ralph could hear them and would call out and ask what was happening. But he didn’t say a word.

  He’s asleep still. He’s very ill. Or, perhaps, he didn’t want to know.

  In the darkening garden, the chill was bitter.

  ‘That snow is coming,’ Ursula said. ‘It’ll be a good thing, I think. It will cover everything up.’

  Cressie nodded. She felt sick and miserable, infected by all of the horror of the last day. ‘Let’s get her in,’ she said, almost callously. I want this to be over.

  They swung the body over the hole and released it. It tumbled into the pit, rolling over and coming free of some of the sheet as it did so. Cressie saw the thick dark hair and the pale pink tip of Catherine’s ear. She gasped, sickness and horror at what she was doing rushing up to fill her whole body. I’m going to be sick. She felt a mad rush to leap in and shake Catherine awake, to apologise to her and to hand her over to the people who knew how to do these things properly. Then she quelled it, pushing one trembling hand to her mouth to keep her nausea in.

  ‘Quick,’ she mumbled when she could speak. ‘Let’s cover her.’ And she swung the first shovelful of dirt into the grave, doing her best to land it on the hair and the ear so that she could forget who was there and what she was doing.

  Ursula was right: the snow came that night. As it fell soundlessly, covering up all traces of the grave, Cressida couldn’t sleep. She paced the house thinking and planning. She was a different person from the one who had arrived two nights ago. Her mind was infected with horror and her heart was harder than she’d ever known it.

  I’ve come this far, she told herself. I have to go on now. No one will ever understand what I’ve done. I’ll end up in prison for murder if it’s ever discovered.

  The reality of what she had done began to appal her.

  What will we do? How can this ever be made right? I don’t deserve to be happy ever again, not any more.

  She walked restlessly, thinking over what could be done. Then it came to her.

  It won’t be Catherine who disappears. I’ll let her live. She’ll return through me, and I will take her place in oblivion.

  As soon as she thought it, she knew that she had to do it. It was justice. It was the only thing to be done.

  The next day, she set out through the snow to Keeper’s Cottage. She knew exactly what she would say. She would offer Ursula and her daughter the chance of a new life in a land where they would have opportunities. All they had to do in return was to take her identity with them, land her in that new country and leave her there. Before they left, she would return to the studio in Blackheath and remove everything, taking all she needed to assume Catherine’s identity. She would visit her father and brothers and explain to them that she had resolved to leave for Australia and that she had sold December House to the Fews.

  After that, she was sure they would leave h
er be for long enough for the lies to be established.

  The only person who knew the truth would be far, far away.

  As she strode through the snow, her fingers numb with cold, she thought of Catherine, lying beneath the snow, unknown and unmourned.

  I’ll find some way to mark her resting place. I’ll give her life and I’ll also give her the grave she should have had. I don’t know how, but somehow, I will.

  The lights of Keeper’s Cottage shone out over the white blanket. She puffed on through the snow, intent on reaching her destination.

  Epilogue

  Emily turned to look at the group following her up the hill. Carrie was at the head stumping up with purpose, her tongue out of her mouth as she concentrated on the climb. James was behind her, carrying Joe on his back, and they were both singing something, a nursery rhyme she thought. Behind them was Tom, walking slowly and carefully, his hands in his pockets. She watched him come, hoping he was enjoying the outing.

  He’d only been back a week, staying with her and the children in the house. The doctors had assured her that he was no danger to them. In fact, his recovery had been rapid.

  ‘It’s quite unusual in these cases,’ the consultant had said. ‘We suspected a type of schizophrenia or psychosis but it seems to be something that’s not quite either of those things. To be quite honest, Tom wants to get well very badly. He’s taking his medication and he’s a model patient.’

  ‘I’d like him at home with us if that’s possible,’ Emily said. ‘I don’t like him shut up here.’

  ‘We think that’s a good solution.’

  Tom had never spoken about the night he’d tried to exorcise her but it seemed that he was the one who was now released from torment. He was weak and washed out, very subdued and often tired, but he seemed like his old self again. He was cheerful around the children and affectionate with her. She was hopeful that he would regain his vigour and complete his return to his former self.