‘Charmed, I’m sure,’ she said, taking it.
Beamish frowned as he regarded the remaining women. ‘Are you two going to behave yourselves? Don’t think I can’t see you from where we’re going — the edge of the wood is only about a hundred yards away.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Beamish,’ Eva snapped.
‘Very well, prove you can be trusted. We’ll be five minutes.’
Florence and Eva watched the pair depart, walking along a rough path parallel to the lake’s shoreline.
‘Gaoler’s gone at last,’ Eva whispered. ‘It’s so hard to get any time alone in this place. If one wasn’t insane when one was admitted, one is sure to be when one was released.’
‘So far, I’ve found everything here to be very pleasant,’ Florence said.
‘Yes, well, you were a voluntary admission, weren’t you?’
‘I’m here for the rest cure.’
Florence had not yet learned the details of her new friend’s committal and began to wonder about it. As far as she could tell, there was nothing ‘insane’ about Eva at all.
Her pensive expression must have betrayed her thoughts.
‘Mine is not a pleasant story, my dear,’ Eva said, looking at Florence through saddened eyes.
‘I don’t wish to upset you. Please, don’t tell me if you don’t want to.’
Eva paused as if summoning some kind of inner courage. After a moment, she nodded her head and said, ‘I think I should, for both our sakes. There should be no secrets between friends.’
Florence gave her an encouraging smile.
‘I was in love once, with a man my father considered unsuitable,’ Eva began, tracing her finger through the grass at the edge of the blanket. ‘He held a junior position in the foreign office, but was never expected to amount to much — didn’t have the right connections, you see. On the other hand my breeding was impeccable. My mother was a Spanish aristocrat and Father was in politics, a member of Cabinet for a while and knighted for it too.’ Eva smiled. ’That was probably before you were even born, Florence.
‘Anyway, I fell pregnant to my young man and all hell broke loose, as you can imagine. He was disgraced and, after a bit of string-pulling by Father, sent off to the colonies. I was forced to give up the baby. I don’t even know if it was a boy or a girl.’ Eva dashed a tear from her eye. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t tell my story very often.’
Florence covered Eva’s hand with her own, gave it a squeeze. ‘That’s enough, I don’t need to hear any more.’
‘Yes, you do, and I must go on, it’s about time someone knew the whole truth.’ Eva smiled bravely. ‘Of course, all the family considered me unclean and didn’t know what to do with me; I was ruined for marriage, you see. Then I caught the eye of Bevan Blackman, quite a catch, I was told, and destined for political greatness provided he had the correct backing — meaning my father, the fixer. And what a way for Father to have his troublesome daughter taken off his hands? It was of benefit to both parties.’
‘So you were traded, like a primitive woman for cattle,’ Florence said through clenched jaw. She’d heard this kind of story too often.
‘No difference at all — you can see why I joined the suffragettes. I had to keep my membership a secret of course, Bevan would have hit the roof. You’d have thought he would have looked after his prized possession though, wouldn’t you? Well, no chance of that. The beatings started almost immediately after our marriage. I took them with gritted teeth for what seemed like an age, until there came a point when I knew I had to fight back or die. One night I sensed I was destined for a beating – it almost always happened after he’d dined at his club, too much brandy, I suppose — and I prepared for it by leaving a poker in the fire to get red-hot. When he advanced towards me, hands out, ready to grab my neck, I slashed him across the cheek and burnt him quite badly. It stopped him, but I paid a terrible price. Bevan and Father declared I was a danger to society and had me committed. The prosecution wanted me sent to Broadmoor, but I ended up here instead, thank goodness. Father died a few years ago and Bevan got everything. I don’t have a penny to my name.’
‘How terrible,’ Florence exclaimed, horrified. But look, I know people who can help. In fact, don’t tell anyone, but Elysium is being investigated as we speak. If you know of anything untoward about the place, please tell me now. For example, what is it about Mr Beamish that gets you so upset —’
A shadow blocked the sun. Florence felt a cold patch on her back.
Eva stiffened on the rug. ‘Shhhh …’
Florence swivelled around and gasped.
‘Please disregard whatever Eva’s been telling you, Miss McCleland. The lady lives in fantasyland,’ Beamish said sternly, Mary’s arm still tucked through his. In her other hand Mary held a bunch of yellow leaved bluebells, long past their prime.
Eva dropped her face into her hands and began to sob. Florence patted her on the back and gave Beamish a glare, which he ignored.
‘Take these, dear,’ Mary said, handing Eva the flowers. ‘They’ll cheer you up.’
‘They’re lovely, thank you. Please hold them for me while I help clear up.’ Eva put on a brave face, smiled at Mary and wiped away her tears. All but Mary helped with packing away the picnic paraphernalia. After that they boarded the boat again.
They were only twenty yards away from the shore when a buzzing sound above their heads caught their attention.
Beamish locked the oars and pointed to the sky. ‘I say, look at that beauty — a red Tiger Moth!’
The bi-plane flew so low over the lake they could make out the shape of the pilot’s head in his flying helmet.
‘Now that’s what I’d like to do one day,’ Florence said, craning her neck. ‘Imagine the freedom. I can see why Mary is so fixated upon flying. Flying is so symbolic of everything we women have been striving for. ’
‘Yes, I can imagine you doing that,’ Eva laughed, having recovered her spirits. ‘Maybe Mary could be your co-pilot!’
The boat rocked with the women’s mirth. The pilot continued to show off. After some spectacular dragonfly-like dips and dives, he dropped low and skimmed the top of the lake, his white teeth flashing.
This was too much for Mary. The old lady jumped to her feet, waving and shrieking. ‘Down here, down here — pick me up and take me with you!’
The frantic rocking of the boat knocked the picnic basket off its position on the bench. Left-over food spilled into the bilge; a bottle of mineral water popped its lid and rolled around the bottom of the boat.
‘For goodness sake, Lady Mary, please keep still,’ Beamish said as he began to salvage the debris. Out of reflex, Florence bent from her seat to assist him, shoving the bottles back into the basket.
A sudden splash caused them to raise their heads in alarm.
‘Mary!’ Eva screamed.
Beamish lunged to Mary’s side of the boat. The boat pitched as he grabbed for her hand. As he began hauling her aboard, the small boat tilted dangerously to its side. Beamish seemed to be managing on his own and Florence knew enough about small boats to keep her seat. But Eva must have been ignorant of the fact and darted over to assist. The small boat could not keep its equilibrium and over it tipped.
‘Oh no!’
Eva’s cry was the last thing Florence heard before she was hurled into the chill waters of the lake.
Algae-green bubbles engulfed her as she sank. Her skirt ballooned in front of her face. Cold seized at her stomach and lungs. She could not tell if she was up or down. Luckily she still had enough clarity of thought to know that she must shed some clothes. She toed off her shoes and unbuckled her belt. Once her legs were free from her skirt and petticoat, she shot upwards, kicking out with her feet, coughing and spluttering as her face broke the surface. Treading water, she looked this way and that until she spotted the boat belly up, floating like a dead fish. She struck out towards it. Eva was already there, clinging to the clinker-built hull, hair plastering her face. Beamis
h was dog-paddling around, circling the spray of strewn bluebells floating on the surface of the water.
‘Mary was over there, just a second ago,’ Eva cried in panic, pointing to where Beamish paddled. ‘She sank in front of my eyes!’
‘I can’t see any sign of her,’ Beamish called back.
Florence desperately looked around until she spied Mary’s bonnet bobbing on the surface, some distance away from the boat. ‘Not there, Beamish,’ she cried, ‘over here!’ she panted as she swam over to the bonnet.
They were only about fifteen yards from shore, the water wasn’t too deep but it was still over their heads. Peering down through the water, she caught sight of a flowing clump of grey hair looking like it belonged to some strange waterweed anchored to the bottom of the lake.
‘Help me, Beamish, Eva,’ Florence cried.
‘I can’t swim,’ was Eva’s anguished reply.
Beamish struck out to join Florence.
Florence would not, could not, let Mary drown. Without waiting for Beamish she ducked beneath the surface and found herself staring at Mary’s face, wrinkled eyes screwed shut, hair and clothing streaming upwards, bubbles rising from her nostrils. The old lady’s legs kicked feebly, unable to find any propulsion. Florence grabbed Mary around her waist and pulled. Towards the surface she laboured, rising enough for Mary to take one gulp of air. Then Mary’s weight became too much and pulled her back down to the lakebed. Florence dipped below the surface again, but her lungs, not sufficiently replenished, burned about to burst and she was unable to cope. She had to get air. To the surface she arose once more, her vision blurred by water and tears.
‘I had her, but she slipped from my grasp,’ she said to Beamish now treading water at her side. ‘She’s so heavy.’
‘That’ll be the bloody iron corset. Come on, the two of us might still manage.’
The corset, of course, Mary’s iron-corset! No wonder the poor woman was so immovable, and positioned in the water in such an unnatural way.
They both took mighty gulps of air and dived.
With one of them on each side of Mary, they managed to heave her to the surface and pull her to shallow water until they were standing on the lake’s soft bottom, mud squelching between their toes. Florence laid her hand on Mary’s sagging head and tipped her face towards the sky. She could not tell if the old lady was breathing or not. Her legs had ceased kicking and trailed behind her in the water like limp ribbons. Somehow they managed to heave her up the muddy bank and onto the shore. They lay her on her front. Florence undid the back of Mary’s dress, her numbed fingers scrabbling to undo the clasps of the dreadful corset.
There wasn’t a second to waste.
She ripped the damn thing off and flung it into the rhododendrons where it landed with a clank. Eva was calling them from the upturned boat on the lake, asking about Mary.
Without a word to Eva or to each other, Beamish and Florence set to work like a well-practised team. Florence pummelled Mary on the back as Dody had taught her and Beamish began to rhythmically pump her arms until water gushed from her mouth. Every now and then he stopped to feel for the pulse in her neck.
It wasn’t long before he exclaimed, ‘It’s going, and it’s strong.’ He positioned Mary on her side then rested on his haunches, wiping the sweat from his brow. Florence sank back into the mud, delighting at the sight of the steady rise and fall of Mary’s chest. When they had both regained some strength Beamish climbed to his feet and patted Florence on the back. Her eyes met his. She smiled back at him.
‘Well done, Miss McCleland. It’s touch and go, but she is at least still alive. I’d best get the boat.’
He took a running dive into the lake and swam over to the boat, dragging it into the shallow water with Eva still unceremoniously clinging to its side.
Florence and Eva helped Beamish right the boat. Then they carried the old lady from the shore and gently lay her across the boards, head cushioned in Eva’s lap.
Beamish shoved the boat off into the lake and rowed as if the devil were after them.
The three of them made light work of carrying Lady Mary up the hill and into the carpark. By that time Mary was wriggling like a worm and insisting they let her go so she could walk herself. Beamish and Florence settled her on the roomy back seat of Fogarty’s car and Eva was dispatched to fetch the good doctor.
‘I’ll wait here if you’d like to change, Miss McCleland,’ Beamish said, blocking off the car’s open door to prevent Mary’s escape.
‘It’s all right, I’m not cold.’
Beamish said nothing, dropping his eyes to Florence’s midriff. It was only then that her predicament hit home — she was in her drawers!
She gasped, covered her hand with her mouth and rushed up the front stairs, the sound of Beamish’s laughter echoing in her ears.
Florence changed and hastened back to the carpark to find Fogarty and Beamish in deep conversation. Both of the car’s back doors were locked and Mary was tapping on the window, feebly attempting to turn the handle.
Fogarty smiled as Florence approached. ‘Beamish told me what happened. You are to be highly commended, young lady.’
‘It’s nothing anyone wouldn’t have done.’
‘Eva didn’t do much,’ Beamish cut in.
‘Eva can’t swim.’ Florence looked around. ‘Where is she?’
‘She’s been sent upstairs to change,’ Fogarty said. ‘How’d you like to help Mr Beamish take Lady Mary to hospital? I’m almost certain that she will be all right, but I want her watched there overnight to make sure she has had no untoward effects.’
Much as she had enjoyed the home thus far, Florence leaped at the chance of a break from it. Fogarty opened the door for her and she slid across the seat and into Lady Mary’s outstretched arms.
She held Mary all the way to the Epsom Cottage Hospital while Beamish drove. At the Hospital entrance Mary was bundled into a wheelchair and taken away to be examined. It was agreed that she should stay the night.
While Beamish was talking to the doctor, Florence noticed a newspaper on the vacant seat next to her. The headlines said something about a suffragette and the Derby. She didn’t dare read more with Beamish standing so close by so she shoved it under her apron to read later. Florence felt rotten about being allowed to escort Mary while Eva had been sent upstairs. Eva deserved a break from the home far more than she did, and the newspaper would help cheer her up.
The sound of a sudden cry caused Florence to jump to her feet. ‘Was that Mary, is she all right?’ she asked Beamish.
Before he could answer, a group of men with the desperate looks and shabby suits of the press appeared as if from nowhere. A middle-age woman, vaguely familiar to Florence, ran from the ward in tears and broke through the group. One of the men took a photograph of her and the flash burned Florence’s eyes.
‘That must be the mother,’ the man said.
Another woman ran the gauntlet through the crowd, a suffragette Florence knew.
‘Martha, Martha, what’s the matter?’ Florence gripped her arm and tried to shield her from the shoving men.
The woman dashed a tear from her eye. ‘Oh, Florence, is that you?’
‘Yes, yes, it’s me. Tell me what the devil’s going on?’
A man pushed Martha from behind, shoving her against Florence.
‘It’s Emily Davison,’ the woman sobbed into Florence’s shoulder.
‘What about Emily?’
‘She’s dead!’
Chapter Twenty-Six
When Dody met Pike off the train at the Elysium village station they collapsed into each other’s arms, saying little. For appearance’s sake, Dody had booked Pike a separate room at the hotel. As soon as he had dropped off his bag he joined her in her bedroom.
Never before had their lovemaking been so desperate and intense. It was as if both hoped the union of their bodies might act as an advance absolution of things later confessed. Dody knew full well how much confessing she nee
ded to do, but what of Pike, what had he done or seen that had distressed him so? Once they had finished, he lay on top of her, still and exhausted.
‘What is it?’ she whispered, running her fingers through his hair, the sheen of perspiration on his neck.
He rolled off her, and stared up at the ceiling.
‘You didn’t see the paper today?’ he asked, scrubbing a hand over his eyes and down his face.
Dody shook her head.
‘A suffragette, Miss Emily Davison, threw herself under the King’s horse at yesterday’s Derby. Violet and I witnessed it.’
Dody drew a sharp breath. This was Florence’s friend, the woman she’d spoken to at the townhouse only the other day. ‘She is dead?’ she managed.
His hand crept under the covers to clasp hers. ‘Yes. Gravely injured, she was taken from the track by ambulance to the Epsom Cottage Hospital, not too far from here. I received word of her death just before I boarded the train. I expect Violet would know now also. She saw everything; she was very upset.’
‘I’m not surprised. It must have been traumatic. For both of you.’
Pike said nothing for a while. Dody sensed he was struggling to articulate his thoughts. ‘These women are desperate,’ he said after a measured pause. ‘Until that moment on the racetrack I had no idea how desperate.’
‘The powerlessness one feels is hard to put into words, Matthew,’ Dody said softly. ‘Was it attempted suicide, you think, or a horrible accident?’
‘I have no idea what her intentions were, whether to merely stop the horse and unfurl her flags, or to kill herself. She had in her purse a return ticket to Victoria, so one assumes she had meant to use it — unless it was a blind. Or she had a spur of the moment change of heart. Whatever the intent, she must have been extremely disturbed.’
Dody thought about what Emily had said after she’d launched herself from the prison balcony: One big tragedy may save many others. ‘Yes, I think she was disturbed, Matthew.’ Dody said. ‘But there was still a reason for it.’
Pike turned onto his side and faced her, looking deeply into her eyes, his voice rough with emotion. ‘Is it really that bad for women?’
The Insanity of Murder Page 18