Fatal Accident on the Commercial Road
Wife of East London Chemist Trampled by Horses
Mrs Nora Mockett, wife of Mr Owen Mockett
Sir, I am a wicked, wicked woman. I am also a dying woman, and as such, I write to you my confession.
I had the misfortune to meet Clovis Fowler while incarcerated at Millbank. She sought me out, I suppose for my circumstances and my desperation, which at the time were worse than most. She discovered my darkest and most shameful secrets. In exchange for her silence and for enough badly needed coin to help me from returning to a former life, I was required to perform one task for her after I obtained my ticket-of-leave. I did not know what the task would entail, and at the time I am not certain she knew either.
I pushed your wife to her death on the order of Clovis Fowler. I cannot forgive myself, and could never hope to earn your forgiveness at this late date. I did not come forward sooner for my child’s sake. I eventually married and was inexplicably blessed with a daughter late in life. They were taken from me – cholera – and as my life has consisted predominantly of misfortune, I expected that woe. The time I had with my husband and daughter was a little bit of undeserved heaven, but I have not had a moment of pure happiness since that afternoon, when out of fear, and desperate again with self-preservation, I performed that evil act.
I am truly sorry. I deserve your anger and disgust. The guilt has eaten me daily. I feel no relief as I write this. I only wish to warn you and should have done so before now. But as I said, I am a wicked woman and have waited until death stands at my bedside. I write to tell you that Clovis Fowler is far more evil than me. The devil himself has laid his hand on her. Do not allow yourself to become lost in her amber eyes for you never shall return.
With deepest regrets.
I am sincerely yours,
Henrietta Martin
Finn drops the letter sheet onto the desk.
‘What the bloody hell, Owen? Why didn’t you show this to me when you received it?’
‘I didn’t believe it.’
‘Henrietta Martin. I know that name,’ Finn recalls. ‘There was gossip at the prison. Something about Clovis obtaining leniency for the woman and influencing her release from the dark cells. Ridiculous, I thought at the time. Millbank was nothing if not a den of gossip. I asked Clovis about the woman during one of our visits while we were still inside. She laughed – we both did – she said she didn’t even know who I was talking about. Never heard of her.’
‘Wait,’ says Owen. ‘Clovis said she’d never heard of Henrietta Martin?’
‘Yes, I remember it clearly.’
‘That she’d never even met her?’ Owen presses.
‘That’s what she said … that she’d never met anyone by that name.’
‘Then she lied. She told me quite a different tale. She said she had met Miss Martin and was kind to her, but then Miss Martin took advantage of her and threatened to ruin her. I had no reason not to believe Clovis. Is it possible Finn? You were there.’
‘Almost anything was possible at Millbank.’ Finn is uneasy. ‘But as I said, the place was crawling with outlandish stories.’
‘What made you dig up that letter now?’ Rafe asks.
‘Something’s always bothered me about it. The amber eyes. Miss Martin mentions Clovis’s amber eyes. It’s not a detail she is likely to have invented, it’s too risky. The DNA test made me think of it again.’
‘Nora visited you at your home in Bermondsey Street, didn’t she?’ Owen asks.
‘Yes, she did.’ Rafe appeals to Finn, ‘We might as well tell him.’
‘Nora threatened to reveal our condition,’ Finn admits. ‘And she was a little rough with Rafe.’
‘You might have told me,’ Owen says.
‘I thought Nora would have told you.’
‘No. She didn’t. But Clovis did, the same day she told me about helping Miss Martin. This means …’ Owen pauses. ‘I think this woman’s confession could be true. All this time I thought …’ But he has no more words. He pictures the kerb, and Nora’s mangled body beside it.
‘What are we going to do?’ Rafe asks.
‘Nothing. I suggest we do nothing right now,’ Finn shakes his head.
‘We could imprison her again.’
Finn pales. ‘She didn’t break last time. I don’t want to go through that again.’
‘You’re right. We have to be patient and think about this.’
‘What about Jonesy? Do you think she’s responsible?’ Rafe asks.
Finn heaves a sigh ‘I don’t know. Probably.’
‘She really is the monster I always thought.’ Rafe’s face is bitter.
‘We should go home. I don’t want to raise any suspicions.’
‘Go home? We can’t live in the same house with her, Finn.’
‘We have no choice until we sort out what to do. And there’s Willa to think of. And the phials – she won’t give them back to us. We can’t just move out. Not yet—’
‘Rafe,’ Owen interrupts. ‘You’re sweating. And it’s not hot in here.’
Rafe looks from Owen to Finn. They both move towards him, astounded to see him so quickly drenched.
‘Stay away from me, Owen.’
Surprised at the rebuke, Owen backs off immediately.
‘You can’t tell her. Either of you.’ Rafe’s clothes cling to him.
‘Of course not. We would never …’ Finn fumbles. ‘We’re going to protect you, Rafe.’ He nods at Mockett. ‘Right, Owen?’
‘Of course we are.’
‘I’m sorry. I … I didn’t want anyone to know. I need a half hour on my own and a change of clothes.’
‘You can use the spare room,’ Owen says. ‘You’ve had fevers all these years?’
‘I have. And I’ve known the consequences since your wife … I need to rest. No, don’t.’ He motions to Owen to stay where he is. ‘I know the way.’
Rafe leaves Owen and Finn staring after him.
‘You didn’t know?’ Owen asks Finn.
‘Had no idea.’
‘I’m sorry about all this. I was trying to help,’ Owen says. ‘Is he really Clovis’s son? It would make more sense to me if he isn’t.’
‘Please don’t pursue this. It’s dangerous.’
‘Everything to do with Clovis is dangerous. I’ve never wanted to harm anyone in my life, Finn, but I want to kill her.’ He pauses. ‘Don’t you think Rafe has a right to know if she’s his mother? I could run her DNA.’
‘You’ll put him in danger.’
‘How?’
‘I can’t—”
‘You know but you’re not going to say. Don’t you think I deserve a few answers?’
‘You do. Of course you do. But not right now. You have to trust me. We should carry on as normal until we figure out how to deal with this.’
‘She ordered the murder of my wife! Nora would have known. She must have felt a hand – the push that sent her into the street. And all these years I thought she’d been careless. God damn your wife.’
‘God damn her.’
A half hour later, as if summoned by her damnation, a banging on the door makes them both jump.
‘Can it be anyone but her?’ Finn asks.
‘No. Fuck. No. Stay here. I’ll try to get rid of her.’
And there she is, impatience glowering off her, a curt tongue to greet him.
‘What’s wrong with your intercom? I’ve been ringing for five minutes.’
‘We’re just finishing up here, Clovis. I didn’t know you were coming by.’
‘Where are they? What’s going on here?’
‘Nothing. Rafe is resting. I took quite a bit of blood this time. And Finn’s in the flat with him. Come on through if you like.’
But Finn steps into the laboratory, blocking the doorway.
‘Where’s Rafe?’ she demands.
‘He’s still resting. Leave him alone, Clovis.’
Before she can sting him
with a reply, Rafe appears alongside Finn showing no signs of the fever.
‘Those aren’t your clothes.’
‘They’re mine,’ Owen injects. ‘I covered him in coffee, almost scalded him.’
They feel the heat of her as she fixes her eyes on Owen, then Finn and finally, Rafe.
‘Whatever you’re hiding …’
She has no need to finish, confident as she is in her abilities.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Willa squats in the sitting room, picking up shards of glass from the floor, when Rafe and Finn return from Mockett’s. Dried tears streak her face.
‘What the bloody hell happened here? Did she hurt you?’ Rafe asks.
‘I’m all right.’
Willa stands amongst books littered across the floor. A crystal vase and the titles of Britain’s most prominent hypnotist have suffered Clovis’s temper. Willa picks one up and shows them the smiling, balding cover shot.
‘She was watching his TV programme and went berserk. And, well, you can see. She’s not taking her anonymity well today. She wants to be famous. She actually said she has so much to offer the world. Then she couldn’t reach either of you and that was it.’
‘What a fucking day,’ Finn says.
‘Do you want me to stay until she comes back? Make sure she’s calmed down?’ Rafe asks Finn.
‘Yes!’ Willa shouts. ‘Yes, you should stay. You always do this. You always run away and leave me here with the mess. Finn locks himself in his conservatory, you go to your studio, and what do I do? I go off to the blasted market where it’s either too hot or too cold. Where tourists trample me and thieves jostle me trying to steal my phone or my bag. Where Camden Station vomits people for fifteen hours every day. You don’t even know that I have an entirely new thing I’m doing now. And then I have to come home to her. Christ!’
‘Willa!’ Rafe cries.
‘What?’ she snaps.
‘I think you’re becoming assertive.’
‘Not amusing.’
A clear and horrible thought grabs Finn. Rafe is right; Willa has changed. And Clovis always feels threatened by change. There’s nothing fiercer than a person who finds their voice – except the wrath of his murdering wife, who will want to silence it.
‘Finn? You look like you’re on another planet,’ Willa asks, though she is too weary to care much.
‘I need to think,’ he says. ‘I need to think very carefully.’
At three o’clock in the morning, the sun has crossed the celestial equator and Finn’s thoughts come into alignment. He knows what must be done. The weakest of them must grow to be the strongest. He lifts the lid of a round, porcelain container, where in addition to his French letters, he keeps a stash of hand-rolled cigarettes, lights one, and takes a couple of drags before he stamps it out. He silently curses that moderation was forced on him; an irony of their condition. Clovis hasn’t come home tonight. She’s probably purloined some poor fellow’s heart for a few hours. She satisfies her needs without stealth or apology. Finn is more careful these days, more discreet, and generous. He no longer pays for sex, but when he has a little extra cash he goes to King’s Cross, where once more the bones of London’s dead have been dug up during renovation, and where, behind the city’s new attempt at glamour, the women still work the night. He gives them a few quid and walks away. Young women are attracted to him; could be what is left of his swagger, or his indifference, because he won’t go with them. He’s surprisingly uncomfortable with any woman under forty. Each morning when he shaves and meets his thirty-three-year-old reflection, there’s something behind his eyes that pierces him with his true age.
Taking advantage of Clovis’s absence tonight, Finn knocks on Willa’s door, then Rafe’s.
‘Sorry to wake you,’ he says, when they both stand drowsy in front of him.
‘It’s no surprise. You’ve been weird since you two came back from Mockett’s. Tea?’ Willa asks.
‘Let’s talk first.’ Finn locks the annex door and leads them to the conservatory.
Willa’s questioning, sleep-puffed eyes settle on Finn. The blank sky hides its mysteries like the man pacing before her.
‘Where do we begin?’ Rafe asks Finn.
‘Oh no. What is it?’ Willa holds her fingers to keep them still.
‘Willa, when we were in Millbank – I know you don’t like to talk about it and I’m sorry – but this is important,’ Finn says.
‘Okay, okay, what?’
‘Did Clovis ever mention a woman named Henrietta Martin?’
The colour drains from Willa’s face.
‘How … how … do you know about her?’ she stammers.
‘Mockett received a letter from her … back then.’
‘Mockett? What is he to do with Henrietta Martin?’ she asks.
‘How did Clovis know her?’
‘Matron let Clovis out of our cells at night. She was allowed in the darks. She said Henrietta Martin was a case study. You know, for her hypnosis practice.’
‘Well, I’ll be fucked,’ Finn says.
‘She’ll kill me if she finds out I told you.’
‘Why? What’s the secret? If matron let her out …’
‘Matron was following orders.’
‘Whose?’
Willa gives him a blank look.
‘The governor’s?’
‘Don’t make me say it, Finn.’
When Rafe and Finn relay the contents of Henrietta’s letter, Willa’s old companion tries to possess her and she closes her eyes and breathes out the impulse to rock. Poor Mrs Mockett. Mrs Mockett who had been so kind to her, who once gave her a pot of ointment for her raw hands. Rotten. Pure rotten.
‘There were nights at Millbank that I can’t remember,’ she says. ‘She talked me into such deep sleeps, dead-like, as if I’d been in the long sleep.’
‘Willa … there’s also Jonesy,’ Rafe says. ‘How he died.’
She nods. ‘I think I’ve always known. Jonesy would have told me if he’d hidden a phial. He would have offered it to me because he was kind to his core and he cared about me.’
‘There’s more.’ Rafe says.
It is just before dawn when Rafe tells Willa the results of the DNA test. Finn is relieved that Willa gives no sign that she was forced to participate in the charade of Rafe’s parentage.
‘I’m sorry,’ she manages. ‘It must be difficult for you both.’ She is preoccupied with the murderous charges made in the wincing hours of the morning, and this other is no news to her.
‘What will we do, Finn?’ she asks.
‘I’ve spent hours thinking, and have only been able to devise one plan. It would be dangerous for you, Willa.’
‘No! Don’t tell me anything more. She will wrench it out of me.’
‘She’s right, Finn,’ Rafe tells him. ‘So how do we proceed?’
‘Well, obviously we need to focus on finding the phials first. We’ve been lazy. No phials, no freedom. Willa, I’ll tell you as little as possible until you need to know more. Meanwhile, you have to keep working on strengthening your mind against her. Take your time, do whatever you need to do. Do you follow?’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Trying’s not good enough. You must do it.’
She nods, swallowing queasy fears.
‘We have to be patient. Once we find the phials, whenever that may be, then we can proceed.’
‘What can I do?’ Rafe asks.
‘Don’t change your behaviour in any way. Resist the testing like you normally do. We don’t want her sensing anything has changed.’
It’s seven in the morning when their talk dies down in the sharp, early-autumn air. Dead leaves swish up against the conservatory promising the coming of winter with each brutal kiss against the glass.
‘You can do this, Willa,’ Rafe encourages her. ‘You’ve managed to keep my fevers a secret from her.’
She nods, worried, and not at all sure she will be strong enough for whatever
Finn plans.
Half an hour later Clovis arrives home to a tranquil, domestic scene in the kitchen. Rafe grills bacon while Willa lays the table. Finn looks up from his newspaper when Clovis appears in the doorway and buries his head again.
‘Breakfast?’ Willa asks her.
Clovis leans against the doorframe, her arms folded as if she’s observing a staged play. Her gaze stays with Willa.
The girl is changing and she prefers this version to the snivelling thing she was.She knows Willa tries to break away from her influence, and Clovis enjoys the challenge, it amuses her and relieves her boredom.
Willa feels Clovis’s eyes bore into her, and busies herself with making coffee. Do not react. Just make the damn coffee, Willa tells herself.
Clovis leans over Rafe and takes a piece of bacon draining on a kitchen towel. She places her hand on his shoulder.
‘Good morning, darling.’
He cannot help but flinch at her touch.
‘My, aren’t we jumpy this morning.’ She chews and studies Rafe.
‘Didn’t sleep well.’ He doesn’t meet her gaze.
Hmm.’
Clovis pauses before she leaves them and then climbs the stairs. They hear the thud of her door closing. Rafe scrambles eggs and glances over at Finn whose eyes are glued to his paper.
Willa leaves her breakfast untouched, takes her coffee to her room and climbs into bed with a sketchpad. She guides her pencil and wonders that Clovis didn’t silence her long ago. She knows more of Clovis’s secrets than anyone. And now she is certain of two more: as deadly and horrific as they can be.
Her pencil moves down the paper and the outline of a young girl’s face appears. What was her name? Mary. That was it. Mary at the asylum. Later, she will outline her face with stitches. Long-threading she calls it. Portraits of all the women in her long life, sewn in remembrance. A parentation. Willa knows what she must do. It will be hard, but she will do it because they must avenge. If they do nothing else with their interminable lives, they must avenge their dead.
She sets her sketchpad down and retrieves a volume from her bedside table. Curious that Dr Johnson’s dictionary does not seem to include the entry of such an old word, such an ancient, evil deed. She runs her finger down the page. Ah. There it is:
The Parentations Page 38