Judith

by Noel Streatfeild

  What seemed quite a while afterwards, the cupboard was opened and the jewellery brought out and laid, piece by piece, on the bedside table. Still Judith had thought only for Lance. How miserable to watch him cry, and not be allowed to comfort him.

  One of the detectives told Lance they were taking him away, and warned him that he need not say anything, and it was at that second the dreadful thing happened. Lance seemed to change while Judith watched him. His eyes grew small and cruel, and he pulled his lips back so far his teeth showed. He looked more like a rat than Lance. His voice was a hysterical scream.

  “It’s your fault, Judith. You’re as much in this as I am. It was your idea I should use this house. I wouldn’t put it past you to have tipped the police off that I was using it. You bitch, you.” Then he was dragged away.

  PART THREE

  ebreak

  MARION LOOKED round her charming apartment, and at Charles mending a light which had fused, and her face wore a cat-like contented smile.

  “I’ll say we had fun at New Year, but I couldn’t mind if we didn’t give another party for months. It’s nice to relax.”

  Charles was about to answer when the front door bell rang. He looked at the clock.

  “Nine o’clock! You didn’t ask anyone, did you?”

  Marion got up.

  “On a Thursday with no help! You finish that, I’ll see who it is.”

  The apartment was on the ground floor. Marion crossed the hallway and opened the front door. By the street lighting she could see her visitor was a large woman holding a travelling case. Clearly, she thought, someone who had rung her bell by mistake.

  “What number were you wanting?”

  The woman answered with a noticeably English accent.

  “My name is Simpson. This is Mr. Charles Winster’s flat, isn’t it? Could I see him?”

  Charles, the door being open, had heard what was said and noticed the accent. Simpson. Simpson, that struck a note. Then suddenly it came to him. Miss Simpson, Simpsy that Judith had always talked about. He put down his tools and hurried into the hall.

  “Hullo there. Are you the Miss Simpson who was governess to my daughter?” Miss Simpson made an agreeing murmur. “Well, come in, give me your case, I’ll put it here. Now, what brings you to New York?”

  Marion shepherded Miss Simpson into the living-room, and settled her in a large chair.

  “Now, before Mr. Winster starts asking questions, what will you drink?”

  Miss Simpson saw the bottles, glasses and bowl of ice at which Marion was looking.

  “Oh, nothing like that, thank you. But if it was not too much trouble I would love a cup of tea. I had to wait for a taxi at the airport, it’s such a terrible night, isn’t it, and . . .”

  “Airport?” said Charles. “Have you just arrived?”

  “Yes. I should have been here this morning. The plane was delayed.”

  Marion had moved to the door on her way to make the tea. She stopped, an idea forming in her mind. She came back to Miss Simpson.

  “Have you flown over just to see Mr. Winster?”

  Miss Simpson nodded.

  “I couldn’t get away until after the New Year, I work in an old people’s home, and they enjoy little festivities, but Lady Mercy and I . . .”

  “Charles,” said Marion, “carry Miss Simpson’s bag to the guest room.” She saw Miss Simpson was about to protest, so she laid a hand on her shoulder. “Relax, and you’re not to say a word until there’s something hot inside you.”

  Ten minutes later Miss Simpson, warmed by Marion’s idea of a cup of tea, and comforted by the kindness that exuded from Marion like the scent of flowers, explained her presence.

  “Of course it is about Judith. I, and Lady Mercy . . .”

  “That’s the woman who married Ambrose Stratford- Derickson,” Charles reminded Marion. “Judith wrote a lot about her at one time. Go on, Miss Simpson.”

  “Well, as I was going to say, we thought you would be over for your Mother’s funeral, so we would see you then . . .”

  Charles nodded.

  “I would have been, but I was away when the cable came.”

  “I tried to locate him,” Marion explained, “but he was travelling around.”

  “I know.” Miss Simpson looked at Charles. “We didn’t know who to ask, but Mrs. Angus Stratford-Derickson rang your doctor brother-in-law. He told us you were not coming. So then we knew one of us would have to go—letters are so unsatisfactory, particularly under the present circumstances, for, as Mrs. Angus said, there was no reason why you should be interested in the views of the Stratford-Derickson family.”

  “What are their views? “asked Marion.

  Miss Simpson paused for a fraction of a second, long enough to pray “Saint Jude help me,” then she said: “They think you should send for Judith immediately.”

  Marion held out her empty glass to Charles.

  “I can do with another. What did I tell you at the time?” She turned back to Miss Simpson. “I said to Mr. Winster over and over, let us have little Judith here, but he wouldn’t listen.”

  Charles filled his own and Marion’s glasses before he answered.

  “It wasn’t that easy. As I suppose you know, Miss Simpson, the young man subpoena’d Judith as a witness.”

  Miss Simpson remembered only too well.

  “It was very wrong of him, but he was a weak foolish young man. Mr. Carlyle took an interest in the case, hoping to make things easier for Judith; he said the counsel he employed wanted the young man to plead guilty, and hoped his case might be heard at a magistrate’s court, in which case, as he was a first offender, he might have got off lightly. But Lance, as Judith called him though it was not his real name, refused, and he also refused to plead guilty; he swore it was the fault of the men who were charged with him, and he dragged Judith in, and blamed her, and then it was found out, as you know, that he was to have had a share of the money made by selling the stolen things, and had already accepted a pound or two. He was sent to prison for a year.”

  “Is that what he got?” said Charles. “I only heard he had been sent to prison. A year sounds too lenient a sentence, I hoped he’d get more. Implicating Judith, hiding in her bed . . . Still, Judith may have been partly to blame for that.”

  Miss Simpson flushed. Her voice warmed with feeling.

  “I know what Mrs. Carlyle says, but I don’t believe it, I will never believe . . .”

  “To me,” said Marion, “that was a lot of fuss about nothing. Mr. Winster has told me over and over that British girls are kept in the background far longer than American girls, but still I can’t figure why it was a crime for Judith to have a couple of beaux; maybe this Lance was a bad choice, but we all make mistakes.”

  Miss Simpson gaped at Marion.

  “I’m sorry to look so dumbfounded, but you must remember for over a year—ever since it happened—Judith has been looked upon as a problem. It’s so strange to hear you speak of her as if she were an ordinary girl.”

  “What’s that?” Charles asked. “Who’s treated her as a problem? She has a wonderful time at that finishing school, I can show you her letters . . .”

  Miss Simpson, with unconscious dignity, held up a hand to silence him.

  “I, too, thought she was having a wonderful time, and I too have had letters. I had not seen her, for she has not been to London since it happened, but I saw her at Mrs. Winster’s funeral. Oh, Mr. Winster, you can’t think what they’ve done to her . . . you must bring her over here.”

  Marion was amazed.

  “Done to her? Isn’t it true she’s having fun, horse riding, learning golf . . . ?”

  Miss Simpson dismissed the school’s amusements with a wave of her hand.

  “Of course it’s true. And it’s a splendid place, the girls don’t only learn the usual dom
estic subjects but how to appreciate pictures, how the country is run . . . I have nothing against the school, but Judith should not have been sent there . . .”

  Charles had forgotten his drink, his eyes were fastened on Miss Simpson. She was saying things he did not want to hear, but he knew he was hearing truth.

  “Why not?”

  Miss Simpson paused while she marshalled her facts, she must be careful to be absolutely fair, and to stick to the truth.

  “I have to go back to the time it happened. Judith was in London for the night. Of course Mrs. Carlyle was told what happened, but it took longer to find Mr. Carlyle, who was away with his son, so Mrs. Carlyle arrived at the house before anyone else did. I was not present, of course, so I don’t know exactly what was said, but from what I could gather from Judith afterwards she heard things about her Mother which distressed her very much, and was given to understand that nobody wanted her. Then there was talk about that stage school. I don’t think Judith ever wished to go on the stage, but she had been brought up to believe she gave pleasure with her imitations, though I never cared for them personally. I don’t know what Mrs. Carlyle said, and when I saw Judith she was crying so much it was hard to hear what she said, but she kept on repeating she had not meant to make a fool of herself, she didn’t know everybody was laughing at her, and she would never do her imitations again.”

  “How soon did you see her after it happened? “Marion asked.

  “As soon as Mr. Carlyle arrived. It seems he asked Judith whom she would like to see, she asked for me, he brought her to me right away.”

  Charles looked at Marion.

  “We never heard any of this, did we? What state was she in, Miss Simpson?”

  Miss Simpson looked back and the memory tortured her.

  “Quite hysterical. If I say love, you mustn’t misunderstand me, but she had loved Lance, and he had said some terrible things to her. And she was not allowed to see him to straighten things out. That was her great grief, not being allowed to see him.”

  “Was she with you long?” Charles asked.

  “One night. Then she was sent back to her Grandmother. I haven’t seen her since until the funeral.”

  Marion gave a gasp.

  “Not seen her! When she needed you and asked for you?”

  Miss Simpson was again silent while she fought her tongue to make it speak only fair words.

  “Mrs. Carlyle thought that a girl who could behave in the way Judith had done, was in need of wiser handling than she or any of her relations or friends could give, so she called in a specialist. I think she was a professional who worked amongst girls in need of care and protection. She saw Judith, and then she saw me. She told me Judith needed to take a hold on herself, or she would find herself in serious trouble. She said she let her heart rule her head, and seemed psychologically incapable of standing on her own feet. That for a time at any rate she advised entirely new surroundings, in some place where she could be helped, and could learn to take responsibility. She advised that I did not see Judith, and that there should not be too many letters. She didn’t say so in so many words, but I think she felt that I was largely to blame for Judith’s state of mind. Brought up to be completely dependent on others was what she called it.”

  Charles turned a shamed face to Marion.

  “I wish I’d listened to you.” He turned back to Miss Simpson. “My wife implored me to have her over, but I had letters not only from Mrs. Carlyle but from my Mother, and I wrote and asked my brother-in-law Edward what he, as a doctor, thought . . .”

  “And they all advised against it?” asked Miss Simpson.

  “My Mother wrote that she had always known Judith lacked self-reliance, she thought a finishing school might be a good idea for a term or two. My sister Beatrice, Mrs. Carlyle, wrote that it would be criminal to send Judith over to us for the time being. She said Judith had been lucky not to have been before a magistrate, that she was not only quite undisciplined but seemed to have no sense of right and wrong. I don’t think she approved of Gling Castle as a finishing school, I think she thought the girls had too good a time, that Judith should be sent to a stricter place.”

  “And your brother-in-law?”

  “He took a much less gloomy view of Judith’s troubles than anyone else. He said she was more sinned against than sinning, but he did say she seemed to him to have been pushed around quite enough, and he thought, before she came to us, it would do her good to be on her own with kids of her own age. He said he thought, if a chance offered, she should spend her holidays with young people. He said she should not be allowed anywhere near my sister Beatrice, but he thought, though, it wouldn’t do any harm for her to see her Grandmother occasionally, the more she was on her own the better. He said he and my sister Charlotte would like to have her to stay, but they not only had no spare room but they had just discovered their first baby was on the way.”

  Miss Simpson unclasped her hands, which had been locked together. The picture was much clearer than it had been. Judith had not been sent to Gling Castle because everyone wanted her out of the way, she had been sent with the best possible intentions. But, oh dear, what a mistake! She licked her lips, for the room heating, and fatigue, were making them dry.

  “Did you know that the warden at Gling Castle was told about Judith?”

  Marion had finished her drink. She put down her glass.

  “We thought that was right. When a person needs adjusting, whoever is going to help with the adjusting needs to know the facts.”

  Miss Simpson answered before she had time to control her tongue.

  “If only I, or Lady Mercy, someone who loved Judith, could have seen the warden. But Mrs. Carlyle!”

  “Why, what did she say?” asked Marion,

  Miss Simpson shook her head helplessly.

  “I don’t know. I only know the result. It was thought, quite naturally I suppose since the case was reported in the papers, that the other parents would not like Judith to become close friends with their girls, so instead of having a room with the others she slept in the warden’s house. It was thought, again quite naturally I suppose, that with her history she should be kept from temptation until she could control herself, so at the weekly dances when young men from the neighbourhood were invited, Judith was given something else to do.”

  “How do you know this?” said Charles. “There was nothing of it in her letters to me.”

  “Nor to me. I didn’t know until after the funeral when your Mother’s maid, Mrs. Killigrew, gave me a cup of tea. She told me.”

  “If Judith was unhappy why didn’t my Mother let me know?” Charles wondered. “She saw her.”

  Miss Simpson reminded Charles of the facts.

  “She didn’t know herself. Remember the first Christmas Judith was sent with a party to Switzerland, and the following Easter she went to Rome, so it was last summer before your Mother saw her, and by then not only was Judith accustomed to Gling Castle, but your Mother had begun to fail. Mrs. Killigrew thinks she had had at least one small stroke.”

  Marion’s eyes were angry.

  “Are you telling us a little girl has been treated as a criminal because she tried to help her boy friend?”

  Miss Simpson shook her head.

  “The warden at Gling Castle is by all accounts a fine woman, and a great educationalist. I daresay it’s true Judith needs to be more independent, but she is a child who needs a great deal of affection, and that she does not seem to have had. Now she appears afraid of affection. She was polite of course when I saw her at the funeral, but she kept me at a distance. Mrs. Killigrew said that was how she was all through the summer holiday, it had hurt Mrs. Killigrew very much, for she is devoted to Judith. She said Judith would not even love the dogs, one bad died since she last stayed in the house. Mrs. Killigrew said, and these are her exact words: ‘Properly turned me over to hear her,
Miss Simpson. I won’t let myself love anyone, she said, then you can’t lose them, can you?’ Lost was the word Mrs. Killigrew used to describe Judith.”

  Marion looked at the clock.

  “It’s not yet eleven, that’s around four in the morning in England.” She pointed to the telephone. “Put two calls in, Charles, one to the Castle and one to the Carlyle home. You tell that operator we’ll take the calls no matter what time they come through, it won’t hurt anybody to be woken up early once in a while.” She got up and crossed to Miss Simpson. “Come to bed, you must be exhausted. And stop worrying, Mr. Winster will take care of everything, Judith will be right here with us in a couple of days.”

  * * * * *

  Beatrice and Basil, told to expect the call, were up early. Beatrice had slightly opened the dressing-room door so that she could tell Basil about a speech she had heard the previous afternoon.

  “I was of course furious,” she said, “that a bishop could take a non-positive view about difficult girls, but then of course we have reason to know how fatal it can be.” It was at that moment that the ’phone rang. “That will be Charles’s call, I’ll take it. If it’s about Mother’s estate I will hand him on to you as you’re an executor.”

  Basil went on dressing, but it was clear it was Beatrice to whom Charles wished to speak. For once, Basil noticed with amusement, somebody else was making the running, for Beatrice, in spite of endless efforts to break in, never had a chance. It was obvious she was being told something she did not like, but all she was allowed to contribute to the conversation was a reiterated “But, Charles . . .”

  “Oh dear,” thought Basil wistfully, “I was hoping for a peaceful breakfast, but from the sound of it I shan’t have it.”

  Beatrice was so outraged at Charles’s sudden interference in what she called “Judith’s cure” that she could only prowl up and down the bedroom lecturing Basil as she moved.

  “It’s not only ungrateful, it’s so terribly wrong. You know how spoilt American girls are, allowed to behave all anyway. All it will mean is that Judith will be pregnant inside a month. A girl like that with no moral sense needs watching the whole time. Is Marion likely to do that? Of course she isn’t. I can’t think what’s come over Charles, he agrees to the course we took with Judith, though I never thought Gling was nearly strict enough, then without a word of warning, or any discussion, he rings up and says she is to come to America at once. He wants her put on the first possible plane. I’m furious. One thing, she’ll be off our hands for good. I suppose she’ll become an American. Oh well, America’s welcome to her.”