The Day She Cradled Me
Page 18
I fold the clipping and place it within the cover of my Book. There is little choice. I pause to take a deep breath, and then knock firmly upon the door.
‘Reverend?’
‘Good day to you. I am here to speak with Mrs Isabella Milne, if I may.’
The maid looks uncertain. ‘Very well, sir. Come this way to the drawing room.’
I am seldom nervous; it is a feeling that sits with unease upon my soul. I am conscious that I am wringing my hands and hurry to shake them loose.
‘Not cold, I hope, Reverend.’ The gentleman in the drawing room bends to the fireplace to select a poker. He is tall, dark haired and immaculately dressed. ‘Brisk weather, would you agree? Not the sort in which to be out, if one can help it.’ He replaces a log. ‘I believe we are not acquainted, Reverend —?’
‘Lindsay,’ I say, ‘George Lindsay.’ I extend my hand. His grip is firm and cold. ‘May I thank you for seeing me at such short notice?’
‘Not at all. William Milne. I can hardly turn away a man of the cloth before gaining an explanation for his visit, can I? Please, take a seat.’
I sit down. ‘I am from St Paul’s.’
He lifts his eyebrows. ‘So very far away? Your call must be of some importance.’
‘Indeed it is. I have reason of urgency to speak with Mrs Milne.’
‘Ah, yes. So I understand. Perhaps you might enlighten me first as to the nature of your request? She is not well, you see.’
‘It involves her mother, Mrs Dean.’
His eyes widen as though I have slapped him across the cheek.
‘You are aware of her ordeal?’
He takes a deep breath. ‘Thank you for your efforts but I must inform you that your journey has been in vain.’
‘Your wife is Isabella?’
‘Correct.’
‘Mr Milne. Mrs Dean is in desperate need of —’
The chair scrapes backwards, and Mr Milne stands. ‘Look about you if you will. We are a family of pride. Of good circumstance. Of reputation.’ His arm sweeps the room, the many framed portraits upon the wall, the piano in the corner.
‘Your home boasts many modern luxuries, Mr Milne. That is obvious to the eye. But material possessions —’
‘Is that all you see? Material worth?’ He shakes his head. ‘It is the culmination of hard work and sacrifice. The reward of a family who have toiled for everything they have. A future for our children. Not just a few trinkets, Reverend.’
‘I do not wish to imply the sum of your worth is meaningless,’ I say, taken aback. ‘I come on behalf of the Church to appeal to your good nature. Mrs Dean suffers; I believe your wife Isabella may also be in considerable pain.’
‘You know nothing of my wife.’
‘I know she is a daughter. I know her mother is in great trouble and they have not been in communication.’
‘And that makes you an expert?’
‘That gives me cause for concern. I wonder if both women would not benefit from —’
‘No.’
‘Mrs Dean has had few comforts these past weeks. To see her daughter …’
‘Tell me this, if you will. How is this supposedly of benefit to my wife? Her mother killed babies and the entire colony knows of it.’
‘Mr Milne, we cannot judge.’
‘Utter rubbish, Reverend, if you will forgive me saying it. Do we not judge as we in turn are judged? Every waking hour of each and every day? Do you think Isabella will not be judged should the identity of her mother become known? Do you think she would not be judged should it be known further that she visits with the baby killer? Do you, Reverend, not stop and wonder how my family would be judged? How I myself would be judged?’
I pause to gather my thoughts. ‘Isabella may not have much opportunity left in which to see her mother, Mr Milne.’
‘And whose fault is that? Not my wife’s, surely.’
‘Of course not. And please, sir, there is no cause to shout. It does not alter the fact that both women should have the chance —’
‘No.’
‘If you will just think on it.’
‘I will not allow it. She is forbidden.’
‘Mr Milne, your wife lost her sister, she lost her niece and nephew. She may very well lose her mother.’
‘Well, I for one will be happy to tie the knot round her throat if called for. You know the family from which my wife comes; you have obviously done your research well. Perhaps you would also like to enlighten us as to her paternal background. No?’ He walks to the door and holds it open. ‘Listen here, Reverend. We will not sacrifice everything we have, everything we are, for the comfort of a woman who is exactly where she ought be. I sincerely look forward to the entire sordid affair being dealt with permanently, so we might move on with our lives and forget she ever existed.’
‘Mr Milne —’
‘Furthermore, Reverend, I speak on behalf of my wife. She doesn’t want to be linked to this sort of scandal. She doesn’t want to be dragged into the muck of her mother’s doing. No. My mind is made up. You go back and tell Mrs Dean she will never see Isabella again, not while I stand master of this house and not while life flows through these veins. She can face death on her own, should it come to that; it is all she deserves. I hope she goes to Hell.’
I make my way up the path to the road. I am so absorbed in my thoughts, I almost miss the sound when it comes.
‘Reverend? Please. I am over here.’
‘Isabella?’
She nods. ‘I … I am sorry for my husband’s outburst.’
‘Dear child, you do not need to apologise.’
She forces a smile. ‘Is … Mother all right?’
‘She is as well as can be expected.’
Isabella’s lip quivers. ‘I wanted to tell you … tell her … she was a good mother, Reverend. I do not believe this of her.’ Tears spill down her cheek. ‘I want to go to her. It has half killed me not to be near her. What she must think —’
‘She understands, Isabella.’
‘She speaks of me?’
‘Oh, yes. With love and fondness.’
‘And I who have not sent so much as a word of comfort.’
‘You are in a difficult situation.’
She looks over at the house. ‘I am. And I must go. He would not wish me to be out here like this. That is all I wanted to say. I think of her. Every day.’
‘She knows it.’
She lifts her skirts to go. ‘Reverend?’
‘Yes, child?’
‘I still love her,’ she says. Then she runs back up the path to the house.
‘Lord, watch over Isabella,’ I whisper.
It is late when I return home. For a second night, no one awaits my arrival. I stoke the fire to get some warmth and sit down at the table; my supper has at least been prepared. I lift my fork and poke at the cold remains.
‘George.’ Jessie is on the bottom stair.
‘You are awake?’
She shakes her head. ‘I cannot sleep.’
‘I’m sorry. I tried to be quiet.’ I push the plate away. I am too worn to eat.
‘You have been busy?’
‘I journeyed to Mataura this morn.’
She pauses. ‘Was it worth your while?’
‘I wish it were so.’
‘What we wish and what is true are seldom one and the same.’ She turns to go.
‘Jessie?’
‘There is nothing left to say. We have said it all already.’
How can I make her comprehend? ‘The woman is alone. There is no one else.’
She climbs the stairs away from me.
‘Jessie? Please understand.’
‘I will never understand, George. I thought I knew you.’
‘I simply can’t abandon her at such a time.’
Jessie reaches the top, and turns as if to say something.
‘Yes?’ I urge.
But she does not answer me. With a sob she disappears into the bedroom
, and closes the door behind her.
‘Let it stand, we hereby on this, the afternoon of the tenth day of June eighteen hundred and ninety-five, resume the inquest into the skeleton of a child found buried in the garden of Charles and Minnie Dean, at The Larches, Winton. Mr Thomas Perkins is acting coroner, Mr John Thompson jury foreman. Mr Hanan, instructed by Mr Hanlon who is currently in Dunedin, will watch on behalf of Mrs Dean. Sergeant Macdonnell for the Crown, you may begin.’
‘I call Margaret Cameron to the witness stand.’
Mrs Dean sits alone on the bench; she looks away as the girl comes forward. So this is the Maggie Cameron that the Deans raised from a little girl.
‘How do you know the Deans?’ Sergeant Macdonnell asks.
‘Until recently I resided with them at The Larches, near Winton.’
‘Miss Cameron, if I might ask you to speak up? There were other children?’
‘Yes.’ She coughs into a handkerchief. ‘A number were taken in from time to time.’
‘Do you remember a child Cyril Scoular?’
‘I do.’
‘When was he was taken to The Larches?’
‘About five years ago.’
Sergeant Macdonnell nods thoughtfully. ‘Do you know his parents’ names?’
‘Yes. His mother’s name was Ellen Scoular. The father’s name was, I believe, McLachlan.’
‘I see. Did Mrs Dean receive payment with the child?’
‘I believe so — she had new things when she got home.’
Sergeant Macdonnell looks at Mrs Dean. ‘Did Mrs Dean treat all the children alike?’
Miss Cameron hesitates. ‘No,’ she says, ‘she treated some better than others.’
‘How did Mrs Dean treat this one?’
Her gaze flits to Mrs Dean. ‘This one she was kind to sometimes and smacked him other times. As he needed it,’ she adds.
‘Was he a good child?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you think Mrs Dean liked this child?’
‘No.’ She shakes her head. ‘Not particularly.’
‘I see. When did he disappear from The Larches?’
Disappear?
‘It was a Saturday in the month of April, about two years ago.’
‘Were you present?’
‘I was sent to the Porteous’s to assist at housework.’
Sergeant Macdonnell looks thoughtful. ‘Had you ever been sent before, or were you again since?’
‘No.’
‘Interesting.’ He pauses. ‘Did you know the child was leaving?’
‘I was told he was going to some lady at Gore.’
‘By train?’
‘A lady with her husband was going to come for him in a buggy.’
‘What about Esther Wallis? Was she at home?’
Miss Cameron shakes her head. ‘I believe she went to Winton.’
‘And Mr Dean?’
‘He was away working for Mr Keith.’
‘So when you, Esther Wallis and Mr Dean were away, who would still remain at the house?’
‘There would only be Mrs Dean and the little children.’
Sergeant Macdonnell waves his arm towards the jury. ‘Tell us if you will, on the morning Cyril Scoular disappeared, did you see Mrs Dean give him laudanum?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why did she give it him?’
‘She said it was to keep him dozing so he wouldn’t be cross.’
‘Had he been cross that morning?’
‘No.’
‘Hmm. Did you hear of any people having come with a buggy to Mrs Dean’s for a child that day?’
‘No.’
‘Did you hear anyone say they had seen a buggy at Mrs Dean’s that day?’
‘No.’
‘Did Mrs Dean say anything further about the child’s whereabouts?’
‘She said he was going on from Gore to Sydney. And she showed me a photo of a boy which she said was him.’
‘Is this the photo?’ Sergeant Macdonnell holds up a photograph.
Miss Cameron nods. ‘I think so, yes.’
‘Does it look like Cyril Scoular?’
‘It is a little like him.’
‘Do you believe it is Cyril Scoular?’
She sighs. ‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘The boy has dark hair.’
‘I see.’ Sergeant Macdonnell raises an eyebrow at the jury and then refers to his notes. ‘And do you remember a boy named Henry coming to Mrs Dean?’
‘Yes.’
‘And did this child also disappear when you were away from home?’
‘Yes, he did.’
‘Where did Mrs Dean say this child had gone?’
‘She said a lady from Wallacetown had come and taken him away.’
‘Did she say anything more of this child?’
‘She sent me a photo which she said was him.’
‘Is this the photo here?’ Sergeant Macdonnell holds up another photograph. Miss Cameron nods.
‘Can you say whether or not it is him?’
‘No.’
He turns the photo over. ‘There is writing on the back. It says,
“Henry S. Thomson, with love to Mrs Dean.” Does this in fact look like Mrs Dean’s own handwriting?’ She casts her eyes downwards. ‘Yes.’
‘Do you remember a boy named Sydney McKernan coming to Mrs Dean’s?’
‘I do.’
‘Do you remember a woman coming to enquire about this child?’
‘Yes, twice.’
‘Did Mrs Dean tell you who she was?’
‘She told me it was Sydney’s mother making enquiries about the boy.’
‘Did she tell you what she said to the boy’s mother?’
‘She told her that she had no child belonging to her.’
‘Where were you when this child disappeared?’
‘I was at Mataura.’
‘Was Mrs Dean particularly fond of this child?’
‘No.’
‘Why did Mrs Dean tell the child’s mother she knew nothing of him?’
‘She said it was because the solicitor in Dunedin had told her he did not think the mother ought to know anything about it.’
Sergeant Macdonnell pauses. ‘Do you remember William Phelan?’
Miss Cameron nods.
‘When did he come to The Larches?’
‘Over five years ago.’
‘Did Mrs Dean receive money with this child?’
She shakes her head. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Did Mrs Dean attend a case in the Invercargill Court about this child?’
‘Yes.’
‘What happened after the case?’
‘Mrs Dean took him to Dunedin.’
‘Yet she brought him back?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did she receive money for him?’
‘I know she got some money then, but I don’t know how much.’
‘Where were you told William Phelan disappeared to?’
‘Mrs Dean told me a daughter of Mrs Hogan of Invercargill and another lady had come up that day and taken him away.’
‘Did you hear from anyone else that ladies had called to The Larches that day?’
‘No.’
‘Did Mrs Dean treat this child very well?’
‘No.’
‘Is it true that she used to knock him down sometimes, take him by his hair and bump his head on the floor?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was Mrs Dean in the habit of drinking and getting drunk?’
The girl hesitates. ‘Yes.’
My heart lurches.
‘Did she often take too much liquor?’
‘Yes.’
‘Were you shown the skeleton of a child at The Larches?’
‘Yes I was.’
‘What did you say when you saw it?’
‘I said I thought it was Willie Phelan’s hair, but his was curly.’
‘Not the boy Henry’s?’
‘His
was reddish, light red.’