When she arrived at the hospital and asked to see DC Fleet, she was told that because she was not a family member she would not be permitted to visit him.
‘His mother is with him,’ the nurse told her. ‘He is making progress and has blinked his eyes once or twice but he doesn’t respond to speech yet.’ She eyed Maude curiously. ‘It was a terrible thing that happened.’
‘Yes.’ Maude found herself feeling guilty simply because she was Lionel’s wife – or thought she was. ‘How are the other policemen that were injured?’
‘PC Adams? Oh he’s quite cheerful considering the wound in his neck. We’re trying to keep the pain at bay. His wife is with him. A lucky escape if you look at it that way. He might have died from loss of blood and they have a baby daughter . . . The other constable has gone home with his arm in a splint.’ She hesitated, glanced cautiously around then lowered her voice to ask if there was any news of Mr Brent. ‘I mean, is he dead?’
Inevitably the blunt question shocked her but Maude steeled herself not to overreact. She would have to get used to dealing with such questions. Trying to keep her voice steady she said, ‘There is no news. None at all.’ Afraid of what might follow she asked quickly, ‘Do you think DC Fleet’s mother would speak to me? I’ll understand if she refuses.’
‘I’ll ask her. She can only say no.’ Pushing open the ward doors, the nurse disappeared briefly behind some curtains then reappeared, followed by a thickset woman. As they drew near, Maude saw from the woman’s blotchy face that she had been crying.
‘Mrs Fleet, I’m so very sorry,’ she cried, stepping forward. ‘I wanted to know how your son is and I brought him some calves’ foot jelly.’
The nurse, looking nervous, said, ‘I must get on with my work,’ and hurried away leaving the two women face to face.
‘Calves’ foot jelly? He can’t bear the stuff. Sorry.’
‘Oh. Never mind.’ Fearing hostility, Maude stumbled on. ‘The nurse . . . er . . . She seems very hopeful about your son.’
Mrs Fleet swallowed. ‘That blow on the head. They say he’ll recover but . . .’ Her eyes filled with fresh tears. ‘He’ll certainly never be a policeman again. It was his life.’ Words suddenly tumbled out. ‘His father was a police sergeant before he died. He caught pneumonia one winter . . . They were tailing a suspected thief and it was snowing hard. He came home frozen through. Robert adored his father. My son’s so like him. Very ambitious.’
She swayed a little and Maude took hold of her arm. ‘Come and sit down, Mrs Fleet,’ she urged. ‘This must have been a terrible shock.’
‘Bit of a shock for you as well!’
They found a row of seats and for a few moments sat together wordlessly. Maude didn’t know what to say that might be helpful.
Mrs Fleet shook her head wearily. ‘I’m not blaming you, Mrs Brent. Please don’t think that. That husband of yours has treated you cruelly. He’s a monster! I hope he is dead – for everyone’s sake! The world will be a better place without him.’ She put a hand on Maude’s arm. ‘Forget him, dear, and start again. We’ll have to find a way for my son to make a new life. I shall try to interest him in art. He was good at art when he was in school. I’ve still got some little pictures he painted years ago.’ She smiled faintly. ‘Watercolours of flowers mostly. You must do the same. Find a decent man, Mrs Brent. Make a new life for yourself. It’s all you can do.’
Eagerly Maude told her about the Barlowe Gallery. ‘Later on, if your son is interested, write to me and I’ll ask Mr Barlowe to look at your son’s artwork. I shall still be Mr Barlowe’s partner in the gallery and we’ll do whatever we can to encourage him and hopefully sell his work.’
They parted company and Maude sought out the nurse and handed over the calves’ foot jelly. ‘Give it to anyone who needs it,’ she told her. ‘Anyone who can benefit from it.’ She returned to Derek Jayson who was waiting patiently outside in the motor car.
The next day was Tuesday and, true to his promise, Derek Jayson took Maude back to Hastings where she tried to see Alice in her prison cell. The custody sergeant had been adamant that she was not to be permitted to speak with the prisoner.
‘Surely five minutes wouldn’t matter,’ Maude persisted. ‘I don’t think she has any other friends and her parents are both dead.’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Brent. That’s the rules. I’d be in trouble if I allowed anything like that. You see, you’re probably going to be a witness for the prosecution and we can’t have you—’
‘Witness for the prosecution?’ Maude tensed. ‘I’ve never agreed to that. I might not be willing. After all, the main person at fault here is my . . . is Lionel Brent.’ Her voice rose indignantly. ‘He persuaded Miss Crewe to take part in the fraud and if he’s not going to be prosecuted, then it’s not fair to pin all the blame on Alice.’
‘That’s for the jury to decide.’ Seeing her agitation he added, ‘It’s a murder, remember.’
‘Miss Crewe hasn’t murdered anybody.’
‘She’s party to it.’
‘But suppose my . . . Suppose Mr Brent is dead. How can she be charged? He was the . . . the originator of the kidnapping and he killed Jem. Without him—’
He slammed his hand down on the counter. ‘Enough! You want answers, you’d better get her a lawyer. I’m just the desk sergeant. It’s all beyond me.’
‘I might want to give her a character reference.’
‘Then you’d be mad!’
They glared at each other.
Sensing Maude’s dejection, the policeman suddenly relented. Lowering his voice he said, ‘Tell you what, I could tell her you’re here. I could give her a message. No-one need know.’
‘You’d know.’
‘I would only pass on a respectable message. Something personal. Nothing to do with the case.’
Maude hesitated. ‘That’s kind of you but . . . I’ve got so much to say. That’s the problem.’
He shrugged. Maude stared round at the sombre furniture and fittings which had been considered suitable for the interior of a police station. Nondescript flooring, grey painted walls, small uncurtained windows. A few notices were pinned to a cork wallboard. The place smelled of dust and sweat and something vaguely like disinfectant. She could see a table piled with files and a chair with a dark tunic draped over it.
Maude tried to imagine Alice’s cell – small and stifling, no doubt; probably a thick wooden door with a metal grille in it and a slot to push in the food; a narrow bed bolted to the wall and one threadbare blanket. She shuddered.
‘How is she?’ she asked.
‘As you would expect. Quiet. Shocked. Downhearted. Not saying much.’
‘If I write her a letter?’
‘I’d have to read it first.’
‘Is she eating?’
‘We sent out for a meat pasty but she brought it up about an hour later and said it must have been rotten. There’s gratitude for you.’
‘If I bring her some food would you give it to her?’ She stared at him across the counter, willing him to agree.
Glancing over his shoulder, he rubbed finger and thumb together. ‘A shilling!’ he whispered.
Maude regarded him with something akin to disbelief. Her own life, as she knew it, was ending but to him and many others it hardly registered – simply an exciting topic, a few inches of print in the newspapers or, in this case, a way to earn a little extra money.
‘A shilling?’ she said heavily. ‘Done!’
A shilling! The words had an ominous ring to them. This whole tragedy had started with Jem’s shilling.
The following morning was cooler and there was a light wind but, ignoring the latter, Maude sat outside at a small table with a notepad, a box of envelopes, a pen and an inkstand. She had forgotten the blotter but decided that the breeze would dry the ink before she could smudge it. Primmy lay beside her, her head on her front paws, giving an occasional wag of her tail. An old tennis ball waited on the grass beside her.
Unable to think how to start the letter to Alice, Maude leaned down to pat Primmy, who immediately jumped to her feet looking hopefully at the ball. When nothing else happened she gave a short bark.
‘What’s that you say?’ Maude teased gently. ‘Oh, you want me to throw it for you!’ She threw it as far as she could and watched it disappear into the shrubbery with Primmy racing after it.
Thursday 22nd June, 1922
Dear Alice,
What on earth can I say to you? The Alice we knew and loved has gone and we are left with a stranger. I just don’t know how or why everything went so dreadfully wrong . . .
That was true, she reflected unhappily. It felt as if malevolent gods had reached down, picked up her life and given it a vicious shaking. Of course Alice had to take her share of the blame but, in her shoes, Maude secretly wondered if she might have been tempted to follow Lionel’s lead. Loving someone so desperately tended to minimize the worst of their faults and maximize their good points. Had Alice been led astray against her better instincts?
Primmy rushed back and dropped the ball beside Maude’s feet. She threw it again and watched enviously as the dog bounded after it.
‘I shall come back as a dog in my next life!’ she told herself. It looked so much simpler. Food, fun and sleep. Food made her think of her aunt, busy as usual in the kitchen making goodness knew what. Biddy had always prided herself on her ability to judge people and she had always admired Lionel. She had always considered him the perfect match for Maude and now she had been proved wrong it hurt her pride, and cost her much anguish to remember how she had encouraged Maude to accept Lionel’s proposal of marriage.
. . . I am presumed a widow and you have been arrested. What a state we are in. I need to talk to you about your marriage to Lionel. Was it legal? I now wonder if he and I were ever truly married. The desk sergeant refused to let me see you but I have found a solicitor to advise me on your behalf as well as mine. He has contacted a private investigator who will try to discover the truth of Lionel’s life before he came into ours . . .
She had also dealt with the ban that had frozen their bank account when Lionel’s death was announced, but the solicitor had managed to arrange for a small amount to be released for Maude’s use until such times as Lionel’s death was confirmed and the estate could be dealt with in the normal way.
Primmy, once more lying beside Maude, sighed noisily and pushed at the ball with her nose by way of a broad hint. Obediently, Maude threw the ball again.
At some stage Maude knew she would have to travel to London and speak with Frederick Barlowe, but she was waiting for the right amount of energy and so far it had not materialized. She woke each morning exhausted, feeling no relief from her night’s sleep. She also preferred to be at home with her aunt whose unhappiness had deepened her confusion. Maude dipped her pen in the ink and continued her letter.
. . . Lionel has a lot to answer for and a part of me hopes he really is dead. I never thought I could think that way but even if he lives and is tried in court he will be sentenced to death. Perhaps it would be better for all of us if he did drown.
I have been told I can bring you some food and Aunt Biddy is going to make you a rice custard which she thinks will be easily digested and comforting. I shall bring it Friday (tomorrow) with this letter . . .
On the far side of the lawn a young lad appeared on a bicycle and Maude recognized the butcher’s boy. In a flurry of excited yelps, Primmy abandoned her ball and dashed across the grass to greet him. He always brought her a bone and was the dog’s favourite visitor.
. . . I’m finding it hard to know how to think of you – you deceived me and betrayed my trust and yet you, too, are a victim of Lionel’s wickedness, having fallen under his spell as completely as I did. In that respect we are sisters. I shall talk with Aunt Biddy if she seems capable of clear thought on the subject – I do not want to be a witness against you because of my earlier affection for you and because I do not want to feel responsible for the years you may spend in prison. I wonder how I will feel when you are eventually released. If I am not able ever again to consider you a friend I’m sure you will understand my reasons.
On Saturday I shall go to the funeral of poor Jem Rider – if his mother is willing to let me join the mourners. She may not want me to be there but I feel it is the least I can do. I shall take some flowers and if she refuses I shall quietly withdraw. I don’t feel to blame for the young man’s death but I do feel tarnished by my relationship with Lionel, who killed him. It is all so difficult. I am having to adjust to seeing the world through different eyes as no doubt you do also. I hope this letter doesn’t cause you pain.
Sincerely, Maude.
As Maude folded the letter and placed it in the envelope, the butcher’s boy departed with a ring of his bicycle bell and a cheery wave. Primmy returned to her side carrying a large bone and settled to enjoy it.
‘Lucky girl, Primmy!’ Maude said with a smile.
Yes, she thought wistfully. A dog’s life could be rather pleasant.
When the taxi dropped Maude off outside All Saints Church, a crowd of curious onlookers was already assembling in the street in eager anticipation of the event. It was not every day that Hastings could watch the funeral of a murdered man. Maude, her face half hidden by the veil, was wearing a black jacket and skirt and soon realized that this fact was going to make her noticeable, as many of the already assembled mourners at the church door wore a simple black armband and their Sunday best. Shying away from them in the hope of spotting Mrs Rider’s arrival, Maude was surprised to see a familiar figure wandering among the gravestones.
‘Mr Jayson!’ she said in a low voice. ‘What brings you here?’
‘Ah!’ His face brightened. ‘I thought you would come. Have you been invited?’
‘No – and I may not be allowed to stay. If I’m not welcome . . .’ She shrugged.
‘Exactly. I thought you might need some moral support and Alison was happy for me to take the afternoon off, so to speak. We sent some flowers. Just a small tribute.’
Maude nodded. ‘I did, too, but I don’t know how they’ll be accepted. Someone may stamp on them! I wouldn’t blame them. To them I’m still his wife and he killed their son.’
He squeezed her arm supportively. ‘I’ll stay with you, if you don’t object. We can see it through together.’
From inside the church the organ struck up mournfully and people started to go inside. Almost immediately Emily Rider arrived with what Maude assumed were other family members. Behind them two black horses drew a sombre carriage containing Jem’s coffin. A groan of sympathy went up from the watching crowd and Maude hesitated. She didn’t want to interfere with the progress of the coffin, which was now raised aloft, but couldn’t see any other way to reach Mrs Rider.
Her companion whispered, ‘Let’s just go in last and sit at the back. No-one will notice us.’
She nodded, wishing that she had decided against attending, but she did feel sad for the young man who had, after all, committed no crime. His only mistake had been to meet up with Lionel Brent.
The service was short but poignant and the vicar spoke of ‘the loss of a young life cruelly cut short’.
Maude wondered suddenly how a vicar would speak of Lionel at his funeral. Would there be any kind words for him – and did he deserve any? Tears filled her eyes and she blinked furiously. Lionel must have been born innocent – she believed fervently that this was always the case – so what sort of child had he been? Where along the line had his intentions changed from good to bad? Had his mother noticed the transition and started to worry about her son, fearing that he would come to a bad end? If so, had there been anything Lionel’s mother might have done to prevent this outcome?
When the service ended and Jem’s body had been laid to rest with due ceremony, Maude and Derek remained undiscovered by the rest of the mourners. Derek told her that Alison had invited her to stay at the hotel for the evening meal if she wished.
‘I’d love to,’ she told him, ‘but my aunt will have prepared a meal – cooking is her only solace at the moment – and I must share it with her. She has taken all this so badly to heart and I worry about her.’
He insisted on driving her home to Folkestone, however, and once there, Biddy insisted that he stay and share the meal that would easily feed three. He accepted with alacrity.
In Hastings, meanwhile, the evening performance at the pier came to an end, the satisfied people who had made up the audience spilled out on to the wooden walkway and, in chattering groups, made their ways home. Twenty minutes later, when the performers finally straggled out of the theatre they found the pier and the beach still washed with the last of the daylight and argued whether it was or was not the longest day of the year. Still undecided, the dancers, giggling and nudging each other, said, ‘Goodnight, one and all,’ and made their way wearily back along the pier towards their various destinations and bed.
Arturio Loreto walked off without a word and they let him go. Earlier he had confessed that he had had a row with his wife, Jessie, and was probably returning to cold looks and a meagre supper.
‘Poor devil!’ said Alfie.
Sydney shrugged. He carried his magician’s cloak over one arm and his shirt, trousers and waistcoat were rolled up in the carpet bag he carried in the other. His wife would wash and iron them for him ready for the Monday matinee.
Behind them the lights in the theatre were going out one by one and they heard the caretaker locking up.
Truth Will Out Page 19