Beyond the Veil of Tears

by Rita Bradshaw

  She was alive? Angeline was alive? And asking for a separation order? It was here, in black-and-white, but it was impossible.

  He pushed his plate away, sending the contents scattering over the table, and jumped to his feet. Yelling at Wood to get the coach brought round, he strode out of the room.

  Oswald read and reread the letter, and the enclosed papers that the envelope had held, as the coach made its way into Bishopwearmouth, where his solicitors had their offices. The letter heading showed Havelock & Son, Solicitors, followed by a Newcastle address. Swearing and cursing, he stared out of the window into the whirling snow. From his initial feeling of incredulity, now he didn’t doubt it was true. Angeline was alive. The little scut was alive. Not only that, but she had the damn effrontery – the gall – to inform him of the fact through a solicitor’s letter and ask for a separation, of all things. Where the hell had she been hiding for the last seven years?

  As the carriage jolted him almost out of his seat, when it passed over a large pothole in the road concealed by the snow, he let loose a tirade of foul language at his coachman, before settling back in his seat again. Angeline! Hell and damnation: Angeline. And Wilhelmina . . . He groaned, grinding his teeth in fury. How could you be dead for seven years and then resurrect yourself, returning from the grave to wreak havoc? Well, he’d make sure she was dead again, and this time six feet under, with a body with her face on it to prove it; rather than a black, charred lump of meat that could be anyone.

  What was he going to do? He stared blindly out of the window. If Argyle caught a whiff of this, it would be the death-knell for any hopes in that direction. Damn and blast her – Angeline had picked her moment well. How long had she been planning this?

  By the time he reached Fawcett Street, the town’s commercial centre, dignified by such buildings as the Liberal Club and the Town Hall, Oswald was barely able to contain his rage. There followed a shouting match with his solicitor, when Oswald wouldn’t listen to reason and stamped about the office, his language so offensive it gave the solicitor’s secretary a fit of the vapours. After this, Oswald told the man that he was dispensing with his services, in language colourful enough for a sailor, and returned to his carriage, telling the coachman to drive to Newcastle.

  It was noon when he arrived at the offices of Havelock & Son, but far from cooling him down, the journey had given him time to stoke up his anger to boiling point.

  Jack was sitting in the outer office, with the solicitor’s secretary and the office girl, when Oswald flung open the door, startling them all. And even before Oswald opened his mouth, some sixth sense told Jack who it was.

  ‘I’ve had a letter.’ Oswald held the crumpled envelope in his fist, temper causing the veins to bulge in his forehead. ‘Where’s Havelock?’

  ‘Have you an appointment, sir?’ the secretary asked, knowing full well he had not, at the same time as Jack rose to his feet.

  ‘Appointment be damned! Where is he?’ Oswald looked at the two offices leading from the outer office, one of which was Mr Havelock senior’s and the other his son’s. ‘Tell him I want a word with him.’

  Jack motioned with his hand to the secretary, coming to stand in front of Oswald as he said, ‘And you are?’ with not a shred of the politeness he would normally show to someone walking through the door.

  Murderous grey eyes met clear, cold, green ones.

  ‘The hell who I am,’ Oswald ground out through gritted teeth. ‘I want to see Havelock, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll tell him so.’

  ‘I asked you your na—’

  ‘Get out of my way.’

  The two men were equal in height, but Oswald was a good two or three stone heavier than Jack. However, as he made to thrust the younger man aside, he suddenly found himself whirled round, with his arm bent painfully behind his back.

  ‘For the third time, sir, what is your name?’ Jack hissed softly, twisting Oswald’s arm until it was on the verge of breaking.

  Oswald groaned, but Jack didn’t release the pressure, and it was only the secretary saying, ‘Mr Connor, please’ as she pointed to Jinny, the little office girl, who looked as though she was about to swoon, that persuaded Jack to relax his grip slightly.

  It was at this point that Jim Havelock opened the door to his office, having heard something of the commotion outside. He, too, had no doubt about who Oswald was, but this was due more to the fact that his clerk had murder on his face than it was to intuition. Walking over to the two men and putting his hand on Jack’s arm in a silent warning, he said quietly to Oswald, ‘Do I take it you wish to see me, sir?’ And when Jack still didn’t release him, he added, ‘Thank you, Mr Connor. I think the gentleman will behave now.’

  When Jack stepped back, Oswald was grey with pain, and for a moment he couldn’t speak as he held his injured arm. Then he muttered, ‘Damn it, he’s broken my arm.’

  ‘Strained it, I think you will find,’ said Mr Havelock, sincerely hoping Golding wasn’t right.

  ‘I’ll have the law on him.’

  At this point the secretary said quietly, ‘This gentleman was most obnoxious, Mr Havelock, and Mr Connor was forced to restrain him. Both Jinny and I were witness to this.’

  ‘You the Havelock who wrote this letter?’ Oswald continued to massage his arm after he’d thrust the letter at Jim Havelock. ‘My wife has been dead seven years, and then I get this. How do you expect me to react?’

  ‘Come into my office, Mr Golding, but there is little I can say, beyond what is written in the letter. I would advise you to give instructions to your own solicitor, so that matters can proceed. Mrs Golding is my client, you understand?’

  ‘Matters can proceed?’ Oswald glared at the solicitor. ‘Oh, believe me, matters will proceed all right. My wife – if in fact this woman is my wife, which is yet to be proved – is deranged. If it is her, she needs locking away, and quickly. She escaped from a lunatic asylum, seven years ago. Did she tell you that? All this time I’ve thought she was dead, killed in the fire that night; a fire she probably started herself, thinking about it. I have doctors who will confirm that she’s mentally unfit.’

  ‘If you haven’t seen her for seven years, how do you know she is mentally unfit?’ Jack couldn’t stop himself, earning a cautionary narrowing of the eyes from Jim Havelock.

  ‘Come into my office, Mr Golding,’ the solicitor said again. ‘Can I get you a coffee before you go?’

  ‘Damn your coffee!’ Oswald swung round to Jack. ‘And you – you haven’t heard the last of this.’ Looking at the solicitor again, he snarled, ‘You ought to be careful who you employ. Someone like him could get you into a lot of trouble.’

  ‘I am more than happy with my clerk’s services, Mr Golding,’ Jim Havelock returned calmly. ‘And if there is nothing more we can do for you . . . ’

  ‘You take this on, you’ll regret it.’ Oswald’s voice quivered with fury. ‘I’ll see to it that you’re ruined, I promise you that. Representing a madwoman – you’ll be a laughing stock. You hear me?’

  The solicitor, his countenance still imperturbable, stared back at the man whom his client had described as evil. And he could see why. Oh yes, indeed. ‘Good day to you, sir.’ He glanced at Jack. ‘If you could show Mr Golding out, please.’

  With a harsh oath, Oswald turned and wrenched the door open, banging it violently behind him as he left. For a moment the four of them remained still, and then Jim Havelock let out a long breath, just as his son, who had been in court with a client that morning, came in, saying, ‘Who the dickens was that, who just left here? Nearly knocked me off my feet. In a devil of a temper, wasn’t he?’

  Devil was right. Jack was too wound up to speak, his neck muscles taut and his body rigid at the self-control he was exercising. For the second time in his life he had wanted to do murder, but unlike the time when he had attempted to face May’s abuser, this time the man had been right in front of him and he had let him go.

  As though he knew what
Jack was thinking, Jim Havelock said quietly, ‘We’ll fight him in court, Jack, where it counts.’ And to his son, ‘He’s Golding – the man I told you about – and he’s everything Mrs Golding said, and worse.’

  Yes, they’d fight Golding in court, but would they win? For the first time since Angeline had told him of the life she’d led with her husband, Jack acknowledged that doubt had crept in. Not about what she had declared – never that, he told himself, as though someone had suggested it; but now he could see for himself the sort of adversary Golding was, and he was formidable. He wished he had dealt with him here today. He wished he had put his hands round Golding’s throat and squeezed and squeezed until the breath left his body. He would have been doing the world a favour, because it would be a better place without Golding in it. And he would have relished doing it. Before God, he would.

  ‘Jack?’ Jim put his hand on his clerk’s arm, bringing him back from a dark place. ‘Violence begets violence. You know that; that’s why you’ve sacrificed much the last years, to challenge men like that in the courts.’

  ‘Aye, and where’s it got me? I’m still a clerk,’ Jack said bitterly. ‘They’ve got the money and influence to make black into white, if they want. The system’s flawed, from top to bottom, and weighted in their favour every time.’

  ‘You won’t always be a clerk – your chance will come – but if you’d done something stupid today, Golding would have won. How many times have you said to me that the traditional attitudes of fatalism on the part of the working class, along with political scepticism, have to be changed from the inside out? Bright young men, like you, have to do that, Jack. No one else will. And every time someone like you resorts to violence to prove a point, it puts change back many years.’

  ‘It wouldn’t have been to prove a point,’ Jack smiled mirthlessly. ‘It would have been simply because he doesn’t deserve to draw breath.’

  ‘So men have argued through the centuries. But it’s for the judicial system – be it a magistrate or twelve good men and true – to make such decisions, not the individual. Once we lose sight of that, whether we’re an aristocrat or a common working man, we’re no better than animals.’

  ‘But the aristocrats rarely have to answer for taking the law into their own hands – you know that as well as I do.’

  ‘All the more reason to bring about legal reformation, something that will be for the good of the whole and will affect the rich man in his castle and the pauper in his hovel. It’s the only levelling process that has any chance of bringing about real change.’

  Jack had preached the same many times, and he believed it, he really did; but, faced with Oswald Golding, a primal desire to avenge the grievous wrong done to one who had been without blame had risen up from somewhere dark and primitive inside him. He took a deep breath and nodded. ‘I want him shamed and ruined. I want to see him eat his words and choke on them.’

  ‘I think we can agree on that.’

  ‘But can we do it?’

  That was the thing. Jim Havelock gazed at the young man in front of him. He’d never lied to him and he wasn’t about to start now. ‘Come into my office,’ he said quietly and, after telling Jinny to make everyone a cup of coffee, he followed Jack in and shut the door. ‘The maid Mrs Golding spoke of – Myrtle – I think we need to go and have a chat with her and acquaint ourselves with the full facts regarding every aspect of Mrs Golding’s former life. I’m interested in contacting the lady of whom the maid spoke, who was willing to speak to the authorities on Mrs Golding’s behalf when she was in the asylum. At the very least we need to ascertain whether this lady would be prepared to act as a witness for Mrs Golding, because you do realize, Jack, that this is not going to be an easy case? However, Mrs Golding has made it plain she does not want this particular lady approached, so it would be better if this was done . . . discreetly.’

  Jack nodded. Angeline was wrong not to arm herself with every means at her disposal, and if contacting this lady had to be done on the quiet, so be it. He was sure the maid would see it this way, after he had talked to her.

  ‘I promise I’ll do my best to expose Golding in court for what he is, Jack. Is that good enough?’

  Not really, for Jack wanted a promise of sure-fire certainty, but he knew Mr Havelock could make no guarantees. He inclined his head. ‘Yes, sir.’ There was nothing else he could say, but he knew the months leading up to the court case were going to test his resolve to abide by the law. Every minute of every day.

  Within two weeks Jack was deeply regretting he hadn’t exerted a little more pressure and broken Oswald’s arm – if not his neck – that day in the office. Mr Havelock received a letter from a leading London barrister whom Oswald had engaged to represent him, stating that his client, Mr Oswald Golding, was seeking a divorce from his wife on the grounds of her insanity. They were asking for a Decree of Nullity in which a marriage might be declared null and void if there was insanity at the time of the marriage. If this was granted, it would be as though the marriage had never taken place.

  ‘Your husband,’ Mr Havelock explained to a distraught Angeline, ‘will be completely free to marry again. By implication of the court deciding in his favour, you would be detained in an asylum. The family doctor is willing to testify for Mr Golding, along with a London doctor who attended you at the time.’

  ‘There was no London doctor.’ Angeline could hardly believe her ears. ‘I promise you, Mr Havelock. As for Dr Owen, he will say exactly what Oswald wants him to say.’

  ‘This is serious, Mrs Golding. Your husband is alleging that you were mentally disturbed from the beginning, although he was initially able to control your “outbursts” within the home. After the miscarriage, he claims things escalated and you became physically violent – a danger to yourself and others – attacking him several times. They’re also suggesting the fire at Earlswood, which caused the deaths of many people, could have been caused by you.’

  ‘But it’s not true.’

  ‘I never for one moment thought it was.’ They were sitting in Mr Havelock’s office. Jack was holding Angeline’s hand and his face, like hers, was as white as a sheet. ‘But now we have the measure of what we’re up against, Mrs Golding. You must do nothing, say nothing, and make no approach to Mr Golding. You understand? Mr Golding’s barrister is pushing to get the case heard early because of the circumstances – his proposed marriage, and so on. Mr Golding’s fiancée is apparently standing by him, so no doubt they hope this will impress the judge. But don’t despair, my dear. Truth is on our side after all.’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Don’t despair. Mr Havelock’s words came back to Angeline many times over the ensuing weeks. Fortunately, for she had enough to cope with, one of the blessings of her new life was that she was sufficiently removed from upper-class society for the avid tittle-tattle that ensued in high places not to reach her.

  Gossip and scandal, the twin sisters of disgrace, were adept at ingratiating themselves into the fine houses and great estates where the idle rich had too little to occupy themselves with. Long before the court case in the middle of May, it had become common knowledge that the late Mrs Angeline Golding wasn’t deceased at all; nor had her supposed death been caused by a rapid decline after the tragic miscarriage of her child. No, it was whispered behind pale soft hands in splendid drawing rooms, her husband had had her committed to a lunatic asylum. Could you believe it? How deliciously shocking! Not only that, but he had believed her dead for all this time, only for her to appear just as he was set to marry Lady Wilhelmina Argyle! What a rumpus that had caused. Lord Argyle was rumoured to have wanted Lady Wilhelmina to break off the engagement, but she had insisted that she would stand by Golding, whom, she maintained, was the injured party and guilty of no wrongdoing.

  An attempt on the life of the Prince of Wales by a sixteen-year-old anarchist at the beginning of April was talked about briefly, but as the Prince had escaped uninjured, it really could not compare with the ongoing d
rama of the Golding affair. Even Lillie Langtry’s portrayal of a dissolute courtesan in The Degenerates in London, which caused a sensation – several ladies of the aristocracy fainting clean away – was merely a play after all, a theatrical piece, whereas this was real life, with enough histrionics to keep the most bored socialites interested.

  Angeline, oblivious to most of this and safe in the anonymity that Grace Cunningham afforded her, at least until the court case, carried on her normal life. She was fully aware this state of affairs would come to an end, however, and was mentally preparing herself for what would ensue.

  On Mr Havelock’s advice, she travelled down to London and consulted one of the top physicians in mental health in his rooms in Harley Street. After a lengthy consultation during which she explained the facts to him, keeping nothing back, he put her through a rigorous series of tests and examinations, at the end of which he declared her sound of mind and agreed to appear in her defence, if asked to do so.

  Mr Havelock’s investigations unearthed the fact that, after the fire at Earlswood, the asylum had been closed for more than a year. After this time it had been rebuilt and opened as a private nursing home. Superintendent Craggs and his wife had taken up an appointment in another part of the country, again in charge of an asylum, and when Mr Havelock had written to them, they had made it clear they wanted nothing to do with the present proceedings. He certainly could not comment on individual patients, the superintendent had written back. To do so would be highly improper. Nor would he venture an opinion on the family of such patients. Besides which, most of the records of the patients and their treatment had been lost in the fire, and one could not be expected to remember details relating to seven years ago. Which was all very well, Mr Havelock said privately to Jack, as long as the man didn’t pop up like an unwelcome jack-in-the-box and speak up for Golding.