by G. M. Best
A few minutes later he was knocking on Gaunt’s door. He waited a few minutes and, having received no reply, entered the room. The first thing he saw was the old man lying slumped in a chair and he immediately assumed that the murderer had struck again. However, he then noted the slow rise and fall of the man’s chest and realized that Gaunt was simply fast asleep. It only took a gentle shake to rouse him. Trollope then proceeded to outline to him the version of events provided by Richard Farrell. Gaunt listened intently, without trying at any stage to interrupt.
‘If what her brother says is true,’ he said, once he had heard everything, ‘I’ll not deny the poor woman was as much sinned against as sinning, but nothing condones her murdering her husband. Nor can we be certain that Mr Farrell is speaking the truth. He didn’t say anything about it to me when we met all those years ago. Why this dramatic change in his view? I’m still inclined to think the courts were correct in their judgement of her evil character.’
‘I doubt whether the poor man was thinking very clearly when he met you,’ responded Trollope. ‘He must have been in a terrible state of mind at having arrived in England too late to do anything. Remember that he’d only just learned of his sister’s death and didn’t yet know the full circumstances surrounding her crime. His parents had taken payment to lie about what had happened. He’d not yet had the opportunity to drag out the truth from them about the events leading to his sister’s arrest and conviction.’
‘I can see you may be right,’ conceded Gaunt, nodding his head.
‘Why did you tell him that Catherine’s child was dead? Was it that you judged the whole family evil?’
Surprise flickered across the old man’s face. ‘No, I saw nothing wrong with the gentleman and I respected his calling and the missionary work in which he was engaged. I informed him that Catherine Farrell’s child had died because that was what I’d been told.’
‘By whom?’
‘By the wet nurse who’d taken her.’
This totally unexpected reply threw Trollope into confusion. ‘But you no longer think that was the case because you told me one of Mr Harding’s daughters is the child,’ he stated.
‘Yes, because a couple of years afterwards I received a brief note from Mr Harding saying that the child was now in his care and thanking me for my role in recommending the woman who had initially cared for her.’
‘Did you not think to tell Richard Farrell?’
‘I had no address for him or Mr Harding.’
‘Tell me more about the wet nurse,’ commanded Trollope.
‘She was called Mrs Mather and her husband was a dockworker. I chose her on the recommendation of a gaoler friend of mine called Tom Paterson. He’d known her for a number of years. He said that she would be more suitable than most because of her educated background. According to Tom, her father was a prosperous shopkeeper called William Applecart and, as a child, she’d known what it was to have a good home and live in comfort. Unfortunately the real brains behind the family business was her mother and when she unexpectedly died from contracting a fever everything began going wrong. Applecart was far too kind a man. He allowed too many of his customers to run up debts they couldn’t pay and so he went bankrupt. The loss of his shop broke his heart. As a result he died shortly afterwards, leaving his young daughter with hardly a penny to her name. All she possessed were her good looks and with these she got herself a husband, but not one from a wealthy background.’
‘I don’t understand. Why would this Mrs Mather have told you the child had died when it had not? Were you not angry at her deceit?’
‘Yes, I was furious, but then I heard from Tom how her husband had taken to the drink and lost his job. That meant the family were entirely dependent on the money they were receiving from Mr Harding. He told me she’d lied rather than see the child taken away from her by Richard Farrell and begged me to forgive her.’
The explanation made sense to Trollope. He knew many women were driven to far worse than lying by their poverty. ‘And do you have any idea where Mrs Mather is now?’ he enquired.
‘None whatsoever, but why do you ask?’
‘Because Mr Harding deliberately ensured that he should not know which of his daughters was the child of his wife and which the child of Catherine Farrell. It’s just possible that Mrs Mather may know of some identifying feature – a mole or other birthmark – that may help us identify which is which.’
John Gaunt was stunned. ‘What father would do such a thing?’ he gasped. ‘Not to know your true child!’
‘He did it because he wanted to make sure he’d show the same love to both girls.’
The bedesman disapprovingly shook his head. ‘But it’s made no difference, has it? Thomas Rider and Jeremiah Smith have both died at the hands of Catherine Farrell’s child.’
‘We’ve no proof that the murders were committed by either of the warden’s daughters.’
‘Evil blood will show itself. The mother committed murder. So has her child.’
Trollope was exasperated by the man’s prejudice yet could not help feeling the man might be right. He contented himself with saying, ‘Then all the more reason for seeking out this Mrs Mather to see if she can help us identify her.’
‘You don’t need Mrs Mather to tell you that information. I can tell you that. The baby carried the devil’s mark.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’ exploded Trollope.
The bedesman looked pityingly at him as if despairing of his ignorance. ‘’Tis well known, sir, that the devil marks those who serve him. That’s how they used to seek out witches in the old days.’
‘Yes, and many an innocent woman was tortured and burned simply because she had some scar or blemish that had nothing to do with the devil!’ retorted Trollope, amazed that an educated man like Gaunt should be so superstitious.
‘Say what you like, sir. The Bible says the devil marks his own and he marked Catherine’s child.’
Trollope knew it would be pointless to try and change the old man’s mind. Instead he asked, ‘In what way was she marked?’
‘There was a brown mark on the infant’s chest just below the left nipple.’
‘Then we’ve only to ask which of Mr Harding’s daughters carries such a mark and we’ll know the identity of Catherine Farrell’s child!’
‘Yes, and the killer of poor Thomas Rider and Jeremiah Smith.’
Keen to share his newfound knowledge, Trollope immediately set off to find Mr Harding. The warden was in his study and he listened avidly to the information that John Bold had acquired from Richard Farrell, though he was upset that his young friend had also become party to the family’s secret. The account of the way Catherine Farrell had been treated by her husband visibly moved him. So too did Gaunt’s revelation that her child carried a distinguishing birthmark. His voice slightly wavered as he sought to convey his feelings to Trollope.
‘The poor woman sinned in what she did but my heart went out to her when I heard her confession all those years ago. I understood why she felt even God had deserted her. All she said is verified by Richard Farrell’s account. She suffered much and there was no one to protect her. My decision to assist her child was unquestionably the right one.’
‘Even if the child has become a killer?’
‘That is by no means proven. We misjudged the mother. Let us not make the same mistake with her daughter.’
‘So which of your daughters is her child? Which carries the birthmark?’ asked Trollope impatiently.
‘I don’t know, Mr Trollope. I never saw either child naked. A nurse always saw to their physical needs when they were young.’
‘But Dr Grantly will know if his wife bears such a mark.’
Mr Harding blushed. ‘We can’t assume that. She may have prevented him seeing the blemish if she possesses it.’
‘Then the only sure way to find out is for you to ask Eleanor and Susan which of them carries a blemish on her breast.’
‘I’m not sure
I can ask such an indelicate question,’ stammered the warden.
‘For heaven’s sake, sir, why not? You cannot wish for both of them to live their lives under a constant shadow.’
Mr Harding clutched at his imaginary violincello and struck several savage chords to give vent to his anguish. ‘So I must save one by ruining the reputation of the other? And I must discover the one thing I promised never to know – which of them is not of my blood?’ he intoned. ‘You ask too much of me, Mr Trollope.’
‘Must I remind you that two men have been murdered because they knew of the existence of Catherine Farrell’s child? For all we know others may be at risk, including John Gaunt,’ countered Trollope. ‘I know that we can’t assume that Catherine’s daughter is the killer we seek, but we can’t turn our back on the one clue we have.’
The warden’s playing ceased as abruptly as it had started and he sank into a chair. He wrapped his hands around the back of his head as he lowered his face till it almost touched his knees. Sobs rent his body. Trollope had not the heart to continue placing further pressure on him. He placed one hand gently on Mr Harding’s head and wordlessly prayed that the poor man might be given the strength to do what was necessary. It took a few minutes for the warden to cease weeping. Slowly he raised his tear-stained face and said in a voice that was wracked with pain, ‘I fear you’re right, Mr Trollope, and I’ll do as you ask.’ He paused to try and control his trembling. ‘All I ask is that I first share with my daughters the truth about what led to Catherine Farrell’s murder of her husband. Whichever of them has her as her mother deserves to know that her crime was the product of the cruelties inflicted on her.’
‘I think that’s a good idea,’ said Trollope, relieved at the outcome, ‘but we must not forget that John Bold didn’t want what he was told by Richard Farrell revealed.’
‘Then I’ll persuade him otherwise. Indeed, I think it right that both he and Dr Grantly should be present when I put the question of the birthmark to both my daughters. Both gentlemen have a strong vested interest in the outcome!’
‘And what about me?’
‘My courage may fail me so I want you there. If necessary you can take over telling them what we know. All I ask is that you do not yet divulge anything to Inspector Blake. He would probably want to place whichever is Catherine Farrell’s daughter under immediate arrest.’
Trollope nervously wiped his mouth. ‘There’ll come a time soon when we’ll have to divulge everything to him but I’ll honour your request.’
‘Then I suggest that you go and fetch Mr Bold whilst I gather my family. Let us all aim to be present in the drawing room by six o’clock. By then the inspector will have definitely left Hiram’s for the day. Agreed?’
‘Agreed.’
There was an air of curious alarm when the six people gathered in the parlour at the appointed time. By then, Trollope had cleared with John Bold that he should speak about what Richard Farrell had said. Mr Harding was too emotional to initiate the conversation and so it was left to Trollope to outline what he had learned about Catherine Farrell. He requested that Bold should confirm his account. The doctor nodded and Trollope then told them about the revelation from John Gaunt and how Catherine Farrell’s child had a distinguishing birthmark on her chest. The eyes of all four men turned on the two women.
‘One of you knows you carry a mark,’ said Mr Harding, breaking his silence as he gazed painfully at the two women he loved most in the world. ‘Do you want to inform us? Or would you prefer us to remain in ignorance?’
‘That’s not an option we can afford,’ interrupted Dr Grantly. ‘We must know the truth, however painful that may be.’
The two sisters looked tentatively at each other as if gauging who should speak first. It was Mrs Grantly who opted to do so. ‘Until this moment I knew not whether I was Catherine Farrell’s child, but now I know the answer,’ she said in a trembling voice. She stopped to stare lovingly at her husband. ‘You said that you loved me regardless of my ancestry. I’ll never forget that. No man could have shown more loyalty and love to a wife than you’ve done.’ Dr Grantly stared back at her, fearing the worst. She smiled reassuringly and held out her arms to him. ‘My dearest, I’m pleased to say that your strength will not have to be tested.’ She smiled. ‘I’m not the daughter of Catherine Farrell. I carry no birthmark.’
Dr Grantly did not need to speak to show his joy. His face lit up. The burden that had weighed him down dropped from his shoulders. He rushed to put his arms around his wife. However, his delight was matched by John Bold’s despair. Trollope appreciated that all his worst nightmares must have been suddenly realized. In the circumstances that had been uncovered, marriage to Eleanor would rule out any chance he might have of becoming a successful doctor in Barchester. As for Eleanor Harding, she stood as if she had been suddenly frozen to the spot.
Mrs Grantly disengaged herself from her husband and looked pityingly at the woman she had so long called her sister. ‘I’m sorry, Eleanor,’ she said and her voice sounded brittle, ‘but I couldn’t let my husband live any longer in uncertainty. You know his position would be totally undermined in Barchester if it became common knowledge that I might be the child of a murderess.’
Mr Harding went over to Eleanor and gently took her hands in his. ‘This makes no difference to our love,’ he whispered. ‘I still love you. In my eyes you are as much my child as you ever were.’
She squeezed his hands and fought to hold back the tears that his kind words evoked. Biting her lips, she struggled to retain her composure. Then she said what none of them expected to hear. ‘Thank you, Papa, but I’ve no need of your compassion. You mistake my silence for admission.’ She turned to the others in the room. ‘When Mr Trollope said Catherine Farrell’s child possessed a blemish, I inwardly breathed a sigh of relief because I knew I carried no such mark on my skin. Naturally that pleasure was quickly replaced with sorrow for my sister’s position. I drew the obvious conclusion. What was good news for me must be very bad news for her. That’s why I was so stunned when she stated she also bore no birthmark.’
‘What! Neither of you possess a birthmark on your skin?’ gasped Trollope.
Both women nodded.
Dr Grantly almost wept in frustration. ‘Then this meeting has been a wild goose chase! John Gaunt’s memory was clearly at fault on this matter.’
‘Not necessarily,’ interrupted Trollope. ‘There is another explanation.’
‘Well, for the life of me I can’t see it,’ grumbled the archdeacon.
‘John Gaunt told Richard Farrell that his infant niece had died. He got that information from the child’s nurse, but she subsequently told his friend, Tom Paterson, that she’d lied. However, what if she told the truth the first time? What if Catherine’s child, the child with the birthmark, had died? Many infants do.’
‘I’m at a complete loss to understand what you mean,’ complained Mr Harding. ‘How can that be when I took the child into my home?’
‘I know exactly what he means,’ responded Dr Grantly, whose sharp mind had suddenly grasped what Trollope was thinking. ‘The child that was given to you was not Catherine Farrell’s child. That had died. The child given to you had some other mother as its parent.’
‘But that makes no sense!’
‘It makes eminent sense,’ Trollope contradicted. ‘Mrs Mather never told you of the child’s death because, by letting you live in ignorance, she remained in receipt of good money for looking after a child that no longer existed. Imagine her horror when you suddenly asked to have the child returned to you. Rather than face the consequences of her deceit, she found another child to give you.’
‘But where would she get it from?’
‘I can assure you that there are plenty of unwanted children in London. She would have found no problem in finding a substitute.’
Eleanor Harding’s eyes flashed angrily at this exchange. ‘So what you’re saying is that one of us is just an unwanted child plucked from a
workhouse or worse? I for one would prefer to be Catherine Farrell’s child. At least I would then have had a mother who loved me.’
‘Don’t be foolish, sister,’ interrupted Mrs Grantly. ‘I’d much rather have an unknown mother than a criminal one. Moreover, there are plenty of women who give up their child not from lack of love but out of necessity. Maybe the mother of one of us thought her child would be better cared for in the home of a kindly man.’
‘There’s one thing for sure – the only way of knowing the origin of one of you is to find Mrs Mather,’ uttered John Bold, who was finding it hard to disguise the extent of his own emotion. ‘If you wish it, I’m willing to spend time seeing if she’s still alive.’
Dr Grantly shook his head. ‘That’s a typical hot-headed response! It’s in all our interests to live in ignorance. No one can cast a stone against a mother who is unknown. Let us just rejoice in the fact that the shadow of Catherine Farrell no longer hangs over this household.’
‘I’m sorry but it’s not that simple,’ said Trollope. ‘Her shadow remains because the murders took place before we learnt what we now know. The inspector, if he hears of all this, will judge that all of you had good reason to want the two bedesmen silenced.’
‘I cannot bear this anymore!’ shouted out Mr Harding angrily. ‘You make it sound as if all this family cares about is its reputation!’ For once there was no recourse to his violincello. A look of quiet determination settled on his face as he glared at the others in the room. ‘I’m tired of deceit. With every passing minute I realize that it was very wrong of me to engage in it all those years ago. Why should I have been afraid of telling the world that I had adopted Catherine Farrell’s child? It was an act of kindness and is not that what the gospel demands of us? Why should I have been afraid that I might love the child less? Are there not countless adopted children who are deeply loved by those who have brought them into the bosom of their family?’