by Jane Harris
At my suggestion, we went by tram, rather than cab. Of course, as Sarah pointed out, this would take longer, but it suited my purpose that we should get as hot and bothered as possible, so that, upon arrival at the Heath, we would be longing to peel off our stockings and plunge into the cool waters of the Pond. There was no shade at the tram stop and by the time the right car came along, we were already boiling hot. The staircase presented a challenge, but I wanted to sit on the top deck for the benefit of the view, and the conductor was kind enough not to ring the bell until we were safely installed. Then, off we shot, and rattled at great speed towards King’s Cross, before the tram began its long, slow climb out of the city. En route, I pointed out one or two shops that I thought might interest Sarah—Hathaway’s confections, for instance, and Zwanziger the baker—but she said little in response.
Presently, behind the panes of glass, we began to bake, like two hothouse plums. Indeed, I was stewed, having, for convenience sake, worn my bathing costume beneath my clothes. As for Sarah, the fabric of her voluminous frock began to emit, ere long, a terrible scorched smell and, assuming that this was body odour, I politely refrained from making mention of it—until we realised that her skirts were, in fact, on fire: either her cigarette or mine (it was impossible to establish which) must have brushed against the cloth and set it quietly a-smoulder, and what with all the other smoke upstairs, we had failed to notice. Thankfully, we were able to smother the flames without too much trouble, and only a small patch of the material was charred.
Sarah caught fire: I cannot help but wonder whether this is a horrible irony.
By the time we got to the terminus, we were both frazzled. Luckily, we found a cab idling outside the Duke of St Albans and although the driver was reluctant to undertake such a short trip, which he claimed was ‘not worth his bloomin’ candle’, he agreed, in the end, to deposit us towards the top of Millfield Lane. From there, we hastened, gratefully, into the green shade of the trees and, after a short stroll, emerged at the Ladies Pond grove, where the facilities are simple: naught but a shed in which to change one’s clothes, a deck and pier arrangement of wooden planks, and a few platforms, for diving. A perimeter of thick undergrowth provides bathers with a degree of privacy. On this weekday afternoon, the place was quiet, despite the heat. There were no swimmers in the water, but about half-a-dozen ladies were sunning themselves on the little meadow that slopes down behind the deck. A stout female lifeguard in overalls sat at a metal table by the hut, pouring tea.
Since I had worn my bathing suit, I could undress without having to bother with the changing cubicles. I simply divested myself of my clothes, then combed and repinned my hair, which is very long, these days, and entirely silver. My assumption was that Sarah would go inside to don her costume. However, upon turning to put my comb in my bag, I was surprised to see that she had not, after all, gone up to the hut. Instead, she had spread out her towel on the meadow and was seated upon it, fully clothed, peering warily at the grass on all sides, as though on the lookout for marauding insects.
‘Do get ready, dear,’ I said. ‘We should have a swim now, to cool down, and then dry off later, in the sun.’
As I spoke, I noticed her focus shift towards the deck behind me, and she smiled, as though to greet someone. Glancing back, I saw, bearing down upon us, the sturdy attendant. Her hair was bobbed: thick, brown and coarse. She came to a halt at the top edge of the meadow, planting her feet wide apart. She had broad, athletic calves, and her shoes were so sensible that they might well have been made for a man. Ignoring Sarah, she looked down at me, sceptically.
‘Can you swim, madam?’
‘Yes, indeed, thank you,’ I replied. ‘I‘ve been swimming since I was a child.’
‘Well, you shall have to prove it. See that buoy?’ She pointed towards one of the floats in the water. ‘If you can reach that, you can swim all you like, but I shall have to watch you do it first. Forgive me asking, but you are perfectly fit, are you? We do get a lot of old ladies, so it’s not necessarily a problem, but how’s your heart?’
I looked at her.
‘Any strokes, heart attacks?’ she added.
‘Certainly not.’
‘Good.’ She glanced down at my assistant. ‘What about you, madam? Would you be able to reach that float?’
Sarah laughed. ‘Oh, I’ll not be going in the water,’ she said. ‘I can’t swim. I’m just going to sit here, quietly.’
And with these words, she pulled a sewing tin out of her carpet bag, followed by her Kensitas Flowers quilt. From where I stood, I could see that the bag contained nothing else: it seemed that Sarah had brought no bathing costume.
The attendant turned to me.
‘Well, madam, if you wouldn’t mind, just swim to that float whilst I keep an eye on you, then I’ll know you’re safe to be in the water.’
‘You can’t swim?’ I said to Sarah.
‘No,’ she replied.
‘But that’s why we came here—to get out of our clothes—and swim.’
‘Well, I never said I’d swim. But I’m quite happy for you to go in, Miss Baxter. You go on, enjoy yourself, and I’ll just sit here.’
I stared at her, in disbelief. My armpits prickled, although whether it was with perspiration, or irritation, I could not tell. A fly buzzed, annoyingly, at my ear. I could feel the sun cooking the thin flesh of my scalp to the bone, like meat under a grill. Sarah flipped open the lid of her sewing tin. The lifeguard—who had been following our conversation—cleared her throat, and strode back towards the hut, calling out over her shoulder: ‘Whenever you’re ready.’
Sarah glanced up at me.
‘You can’t swim,’ I said again.
‘No, I’ve never learned, even though I grew up by the sea—isn’t it funny?’
A cloud passed across the sun. From this angle, the Pond looked murky, the colour of Brown Windsor soup. I turned my gaze upon the other ladies, who were seated on the meadow. Some of the younger women’s bathing suits were slashed well above the knee, and one girl’s costume was designed with a daring, cutaway section, at the midriff. Then I looked at my assistant, who sat there, in her stockings and shoes, and that frumpy frock, now with a silly charred patch in the skirts, and a hole the size of a fist. She had taken a length of cotton and was peering down at her fingers, to thread a needle. Her tight cuffs bit into the soft flesh of her wrists.
‘Don’t you even want to put on something cooler?’ I asked.
‘Oh, don’t worry about me. Besides, I haven’t got any other clothes with me.’
‘Well, it’s quite private here, you know. I expect you could pull off your frock and sit in your underwear; nobody would take a blind bit of notice.’
Sarah laughed, and shook her head. ‘Oh, Miss Baxter,’ she said. ‘You are a caution, sometimes.’
Then she commenced to sew.
Perhaps it was the heat, but I found myself in the grip of a great agitation. I was seized with a desire to rip open her frock, baring her arms and shoulders to the sun; either that, or stuff her blasted quilt down her throat. To prevent myself from doing anything so foolish, I grabbed my towel and set off, at once, without a word, up to the path, and onto the deck, where I dropped my towel. The attendant had resumed her place on her camp chair, and I nodded at her, in passing.
‘Take it slowly,’ she said, but before she could give me any further unnecessary advice, I turned, without pause, and—holding the handrail only briefly—allowed myself to topple backwards into the Pond.
Alas, I had not foreseen that the water would be so unspeakably cold. The icy shock of it made my head pound, as though it might explode. I sank, helplessly, through the freezing depths, for what seemed like the course of ages. My lungs began to feel as though they were being crushed. I longed to gasp for air, but I was deep underwater, and still descending. Then, of a sudden, something soft and slimy brushed against my arm. Alarmed, I kicked out, only to dig my foot into a warm greasy substance, and then, in a p
anic, I swallowed a volume of water. I closed my eyes, feeling myself turn and spin. Perhaps this was what it was like to drown. My ears ached. Opening my eyes, I glimpsed a bluish light, far above me, and began to rise towards it, amid a thousand bubbles. At last, I burst out of the water, scattering a raucous family of ducks. I was choking, half blind and gasping for breath. It seemed that I had all but forgotten how to swim. I lashed out with my arms and paddled my legs, desperate to stay afloat. The buoy lay ahead: much more distant than it had seemed from the shore. I thrashed towards it. The surface of the Pond was green with slime and stank of algae. I realised that it must be very deep: the bottom was invisible and, close at hand, the waters appeared more black than brown.
At last, I reached the float and grabbed onto it for dear life. Mysteriously, my arms were covered with mud. The lifeguard was standing at the edge of the pier, leaning forwards, staring out at me, keenly.
‘I can come and get you in the boat,’ she shouted.
‘No, thank you!’ I called back.
And then I caught a glimpse of Sarah, her head and shoulders just visible. She was standing to the left of the deck, where the meadow sloped away, behind the path. Her hand shaded her eyes as she looked out at me. Evidently, she was under the impression that I could not see her, perhaps because I was low in the water and she was partially concealed by the hut and the slope. The expression on her face was cold, unsmiling. She looked—dare I say it—disappointed. It dawned upon me that she must have watched me almost drown, and yet had done nothing to help.
Just as I was absorbing this chilling realisation, I felt a searing pain in my foot, which caused me to scream out in agony. Greatly alarmed, I floundered back to the wooden planks of the deck, and there, was hauled to safety by the lifeguard and a few other concerned women; of Sarah, there was now no sign. Once out of the Pond, it became clear that my toes were gushing with blood. Something had bitten me: a pike, most likely, according to the attendant. I had to submit to the indignity of having her bathe and bandage my foot.
Ten humiliating minutes later, Sarah finally waddled over, claiming to have dozed off in the sun. Absurdly, the lifeguard insisted that I be driven to the hospital. However, the events of the afternoon had unsettled me so much that I only wanted to return home. And so, once we had found the cab, I instructed the driver to take us straight back to Bloomsbury—‘if that might be worth his candle’.
All the way home, Sarah said nothing; not a word. She simply stared out of the window. Sometimes, when she thinks that she is not being observed, she gets a blank, pitiless look in her eyes and, for the first time, yesterday in the cab, I noticed something cruel in the line of her jaw.
In any case, I have—at last—had an idea. It came to me, last night, just as I was taking my little miracle pills in preparation for sleep. At first, I dismissed the notion, as too extreme. But having racked my brains, I can think of no other way to find out whether or not the girl has these scars. The worst that will happen is that she will sleep late—and a little extra rest never hurt anyone.
Preparation is required; the ground must be laid. I have already begun, this morning, by sending her to Fortnum and Mason’s to get a tin of Van Houten’s cocoa powder and some vanilla sugar. She will not touch alcohol, but it is to my advantage that she has such a sweet tooth. I still have plenty of veronal, and two or three should suffice, given that she is not habituated to them; perhaps four, to be on the safe side. I am quite certain that no harm can come to her.
Tuesday, 12th September. 11.30 p.m. How annoying! I was all ready to go ahead with it tonight, and did invite her to join me in a cup of cocoa but she refused! In the end, I was forced to drink some all by myself. What is wrong with the girl? I cannot imagine that she suspects anything. Perhaps she was simply not in the mood. Next time, I must find a way to make it more tempting: the addition of a few pieces of real chocolate, perhaps, melted in, and whipped cream piled on the top, like they used to do at the cocoa house, in the West End Park, all those years ago. She used to adore those little glasses of hot cocoa topped with crème Chantilly.
Tomorrow, when she goes to buy birdseed, I will ask her to get me a bar of chocolate and some cream.
Thursday, 14th September. 11.15 p.m. I am almost too thrilled to write. Tonight—at last, after a few attempts, earlier in the week—she finally accepted my invitation and drank a cup of cocoa with me in the sitting room. Happily, everything has conspired to affirm that this is exactly the right plan of action: even the weather seems to approve, because the last few days have been chilly and wet, and much more suited to the drinking of hot drinks at bedtime. I insisted on melting the chocolate myself, which gave me the perfect opportunity to stir in the crushed veronal—three of them (in the end, I decided that four might be too much for one who is not habituated).
She ate the dollop of cream with a spoon. For a brief instant, I worried that she might leave the cocoa—but no, she drank it all down, like a good girl.
Sure enough, not five minutes later, she started to yawn, and then she excused herself and said goodnight. I must say, I did not expect the pills to work quite so quickly.
Now, I am only waiting for her to settle down. For a while, she could be heard, moving around in her room, but her light went out not long ago and all is silent. Another half an hour ought to be enough, and then I shall go in.
VI
Edinburgh
MARCH 1890
19
Since an almost verbatim record of the proceedings is available in the aforementioned Notable Trials series, I shall refrain from giving an exhaustive account of the evidence, but will limit myself to certain salient points that merit further discussion, and some matters which, at the time, I was unable to refute.
The first witness, James O’Connell, is worth mentioning if only for the startling effect that his testimony had upon certain members of the assembled crowd. O’Connell was the carrier who had found Rose’s body in the woods. He was a florid, burly, bombastic fellow, clearly filled with self-importance at appearing in court. When Aitchison asked him to describe what had happened on that day, O’Connell stated that he had noticed a sack half buried in a patch of disturbed earth, some distance from the road.
‘When I pulled on it, I saw it was all tangled up with a body—a child—well, a decomposed body, the bones of a child. I think the flesh had been eaten, by foxes or dogs, but the bones remained.’
At this juncture, the carrier was obliged to pause in his testimony, because of an uproar in court: various people in the public benches began to weep, there were histrionics, and a woman in the gallery actually fainted, and had to be carried out.
Dreadful though it was that a small child had suffered such an abominable fate, this excessively hysterical response was surprising, given that these details must have been known to everyone in attendance, since the whole story had been repeated, ad nauseam, in the press. As far as I was aware, none of these persons in tears, or fainting, were acquainted with Rose or the Gillespies; it was—as Caskie later said—highly suspect. Apparently, some members of the legal profession are not above hiring people to sit amongst the crowds in court and—at certain pre-arranged points—mimic shock, or outrage, or distress (or whatever emotion has been agreed upon), in response to what is said from the witness box. Caskie did not suggest for one moment that the Crown would have stooped to employ such a tactic, but it did make one wonder whether these public outbursts were to be trusted.
During the pandemonium, as the woman who had fainted was carried outside, Aitchison himself stood in the well of the court, with his plump, pink hands on his hips, gazing around and nodding to himself, sorrowfully, as if such reactions were only to be expected.
Once order was restored, and the prosecutor had finished with O’Connell, Mr Pringle began his cross-examination. It was Pringle’s tendency to ask questions as though he was a little distracted, and dreamy. Perhaps this was an affectation but, at times (particularly as the trial progressed), it did se
em as though his thoughts were, indeed, elsewhere and, once or twice, he was mistaken on points of law, thereby damaging his credibility still further. Mr Pringle was nearing the age of retirement, and he had, perhaps, lost some of his verve. In any case, let us waste no time on him; he elicited nothing of note from the carrier and, thereafter, it was the turn of my counsel for the defence to take the floor.
As he rose to his feet, I pressed my hands together, until my fingers hurt: this was the only means by which I seemed able to maintain my composure, since I was almost breathless with anticipation and nerves. MacDonald took a few paces and then stood perfectly still, with one hand on his chin, as though turning over, in his mind, something of great import. The courtroom fell silent. We waited. Presently, I began to fear that the diminutive advocate had been struck with stage fright but, at last, he levelled a stern gaze at the witness, and posed a question so sharply that it almost seemed like an accusation:
‘Mr O’Connell, what, exactly, on that day, were you doing in the woods?’
The carrier looked peeved, but replied: ‘As I said, it was… I was answering a call of nature.’
MacDonald cast a look of mild surprise at the jury. ‘A call of nature—couldn’t that have been answered, more conveniently, at the roadside? It’s a fair tramp from where you abandoned your wagon, to the site of the child’s burial, is it not?’
‘You might say that,’ admitted O’Connell, hauling up his breeches over the expanse of his belly.
‘Then why go so far into the woods? Indeed, it appears that you went directly to the shallow grave—almost as though you knew where it was.’
At once, there was a change in the atmosphere of the room: all those present were listening more intently than they had been previously. I wondered where MacDonald was leading us. Could he genuinely think that this man O’Connell was somehow involved in Rose’s death?