The Murderess

by Jennifer Wells

  These were all things that I felt it important for Hugh to know, but none of them were my reason for writing. It was the next part of the letter that would be the most important – the part that I would need to think hardest about, choose my words carefully and make as real as the frost-covered garden that I had brought to life with my words. I thought hard about how to start the sentence – ‘by the way’, ‘incidentally’, ‘some other news’ – but in the end I decided upon: ‘I just thought that I should mention’. Then I wrote another couple of sentences describing how Rosalie had left Missensham and how she had eloped to London with another man, an older, richer one. I threw in a few other things for good measure, said that I had heard this through gossip, how it was the talk of the town, and about how there was a rumour that she had been with older men many times before, and then, when I lifted the paper off the table and sat back to reread it, I thought that it was not so far from the truth and seemed even more honest now that it was recorded by ink on paper. After all that Rosalie had done to me, I felt that this went some way to putting things right.

  But I had not finished – there was one thing that could change everything if Hugh found out, one thing that would render all of my carefully crafted sentences to just scribbles on paper. I knew that there could be no way that Hugh could ever return to Missensham Grange, the place where Rosalie could turn up unannounced at any time. It would be the first place that she would look for him, and the place where she would tell him of her baby.

  I put my pen down and sat back in the chair, I looked across the garden to the wall with the moss-covered bricks that I had described so well to him. I saw the frost still icing the grass of the Long Lawn and the twigs of the bare trees rising in angular twists, encased in brittle ice that I fancied would shatter at the slightest breeze. Yet, despite the frost, the trees still remained and the wall, the garden and the house – and they were mine. Missensham Grange was my property, my land. It had been passed from mother to daughter for generations and I would not have its name disgraced. I dipped the pen and started to write:

  I miss you, my darling, and the life we had together, but I think you must agree that the circumstances you created have changed things forever and cannot be repaired. Your wages as a captain have done little to cover the household costs and we are bankrupt. I have heard that nobody will speak ill of a soldier who has volunteered so bravely, but I fear that things will be different if you return to Missensham. I fear scandal for you and your family and that your mother, at her great age, would not survive it. It breaks my heart but when you return, it must not be to Missensham Grange.

  I signed it as ‘your once-loving wife’ and even put a single kiss. Then I blotted the ink carefully, before folding it inside the envelope and sealing it.

  It was done.

  Kate

  Chapter 37

  March 1941

  ‘My Millicent was a compassionate woman,’ said Dad. ‘She always had nothing but care and charity for others.’ He took a photograph of my mother from his pocket and stared at it lovingly, ‘My angel.’

  I was not sure if he was addressing myself or Mr Crozier but we both sat dutifully, trying to train our eyes in his direction and not gaze out of the drawing room window. The coffee table was strewn with papers, which at one point had been ordered but were now so well studied that they no longer made sense. For the last two hours, the hands of the clock on the mantelpiece had measured time in slow bites, the tick of every second now deafening, and the tea in the pot had stewed.

  Almost ten months had passed since we first heard about my mother’s parole hearing, and now, with the board due to decide her fate the following day, Dad had called a meeting to brief Mr Crozier.

  The summer and autumn of 1940 had been a time of discovery for me – a time over which the tramp who I had seen at the station had become my father, Hugh Paxton, and my mother’s nameless victim had become Rosalie, a pregnant housemaid sacked from Hugh’s employment. Yet, since receiving the letter from Walker’s Fine Garments back in October and learning of the stage of Rosalie’s pregnancy, I had found out nothing new that I could rely on. I had wanted to believe the old midwife when she said that Rosalie had been present at my birth but, after rereading Rosalie’s dates of employment at the clothing factory, I had realised that the housemaid had left the Grange several months before my birth. For this reason I believed the old woman to be mistaken, not only in her version of the events, but also in the recollection that had left me so shaken – the one in which she referred to my mother with the name “Rosalie”’

  With no new information that would help my mother’s case, the winter months had passed in the drudgery of a rationed Christmas and a New Year’s celebration spent in the darkness of the blackout. My birthday had also marked the passing of time yet it was one where gratitude came not from receiving, but from what had not been taken away and, at a time when the bombs seemed to kill so many and reduce their homes to rubble, I was grateful that I had lived to the grand age of twenty-five and still had a roof over my head and breath still in my lungs when so many had not.

  Despite everything that was going on in the world, Dad had not let me forget my mother’s parole hearing and, after much struggle, I had managed to cobble together a document consisting of tales of motherly love that I remembered from Sunday school and anecdotes that I had overheard on the bus, which I hoped I could pass as testament to the gentle nature of my own mother. Dad had been pleased by my efforts, and this one sorry page of borrowed stories sat with the other documents in the middle of the coffee table for the use of the harassed lawyer.

  ‘Just remember to get those points across to the board, Mr Crozier,’ said Dad. ‘They will be just as important as all your legal wranglings.’

  He looked to Mr Crozier, who nodded quickly.

  ‘I have, of course, written this longer statement,’ he continued, handing a well-stuffed brown envelope to Mr Crozier, ‘which includes plenty of evidence to demonstrate my points.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Mr Crozier quietly. ‘Thank you, Arthur, I’m sure it will be—’

  ‘I want you to read it aloud to the review board,’ he said. ‘Word for word. I think it is the only way to get them to understand.’

  ‘I’m sure there won’t be a need—’

  ‘Promise me, you will do that,’ Dad insisted.

  Mr Crozier nodded and took the envelope, glancing at his wristwatch. ‘Well, my train for London departs in half an hour, I must leave now if I am to catch it and have time to rest tonight and be refreshed for the review tomorrow.’ He stood up and collected his papers, stuffing them into a leather bag. ‘Maybe you will walk with me to the station, Arthur?’ he said, and I fancied that he said it as a way of ending the conversation, as he knew full well that Dad would not.

  ‘Oh, you know that I would, Mr Crozier,’ said Dad quickly, ‘but I have much to see to here. I am sure that Kate will accompany you.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I said and, feeling that it was not a good time to be left at home with Dad, I stood up quickly and picked up my cardigan.

  ‘I’m sorry about all that,’ I said as we walked down the driveway. ‘As you know, my father never really recovered from what happened, yet he became manageable for a few years, until all this review stuff opened some old wounds.’

  Mr Crozier nodded. ‘Do not concern yourself, my dear, I am used to this kind of thing. After so many years practising law I have come to believe that half the battle is with your own client.’

  ‘Do you know what you will say at the hearing or has an afternoon with my father done you more harm than good?’ I said.

  ‘Well, apologies to your father, but a previously sweet nature is difficult to prove in a convicted murderess. You must prepare your father for any outcome and make sure that when the decision comes, he can accept it and move on with his life. After all, one cannot undo bureaucracy or challenge a long-debated decision made by learned men.’

  ‘I understand,’ I said.<
br />
  ‘But we do have a case to put forward,’ he continued. ‘The governor of Holloway Prison will give a strong testimony to her nature, for she has behaved well for the latter part of her sentence. As for me, I will have to try to prove that the tramp attack in the walled garden had left her traumatised and that the unfortunate incident at the station was triggered by the sight of a similar vagrant.’

  I looked down at my feet, uneasy that neither Dad nor I had told him that we knew the identities of the tramp and the murdered woman. It was something that we had avoided almost instinctively and, even as we spent long evenings sat around the kitchen table discussing our statements and collating documents, revealing what we knew to Mr Crozier was something that we had never discussed. After all, neither of us could be sure of my mother’s intent, but we both knew that to expose her familiarity with either a potential witness or the victim herself might imply that her actions were wilful.

  Mr Crozier was undeterred by my silence, ‘I have the police statements given at the time of the attack in the garden and the documentation for your hurried enrolment in the boarding school,’ he added. ‘It is a defence which was not used in the trial, so may now have a new bearing. It is a tenuous argument but the board will still be looking for answers, it is the only way they can be reassured that she will not offend again if they release her.’

  I thought about what he said for a moment – he had a case to put forward but it was not a strong one. ‘My mother was very confused for her first years in prison,’ I said. ‘For a long time she thought that time had not moved on from that day in 1931, but things are different now. If my mother herself would only speak about what happened that would be something that would endear her to them; surely her own admittance would have to come before true repentance?’

  ‘Oh, I agree,’ said Mr Crozier, ‘but at the same time I cannot help thinking that your mother would have been aware of this at the time of the trial.’ He paused. ‘I suspect that the problem is that she was also aware of the law.’

  ‘She used her right to silence,’ I said. ‘She knows that the secrets she is keeping would harm her defence.’

  ‘So you do know something about the law!’ Mr Crozier exclaimed. ‘Despite what you have been saying, you have indeed been taking an interest in the case.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘It is hard not to.’

  ‘Well despite her silence, it still might have helped if the police had managed to identify the woman at the station, or if that other witness, the tramp, had come forward.’

  ‘If only,’ I said flatly, Dad’s earlier words of commitment now seeming hollow.

  We walked a little further, then I turned back to look at the house. Dad was standing in the doorway, watching us go. He was too far away to hear our conversation, but I continued walking just to be sure.

  ‘What do you think will happen?’ I said.

  ‘I really don’t know,’ said Mr Crozier. ‘She is a woman after all, and parole boards are usually lenient with the fairer sex, but she has already had leniency, you know the standard sentence for this kind of thing is the noose and many of the newspapers were calling for it at the time.’

  ‘I hadn’t forgotten,’ I said.

  ‘So now will you let me ask you something, Kate?’

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘Your father has always made things very plain to me but not you. What do you actually want to happen?’

  I found that I could not answer him. I had spent the past few weeks thinking about the practicalities if my mother was released and how to deal with Dad’s disappointment if she was not, but my thoughts had been drifting between both outcomes with no desire for either. I had learnt too young that life-changing events can be random and unforeseen, so it had never occurred to me to hope for anything.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I just don’t know.’

  We reached the end of the driveway, at which point we stopped and turned to look back at the house. Dad still stood on the step, watching us and waving.

  ‘What about you?’ I said. ‘You must have a view that is not professional, you are human also after all, what do you think should happen?’

  ‘Honestly, Kate, I don’t know either, but…’ he raised his hand to wave to Dad. ‘At least someone wants your mother back.’

  Chapter 38

  April 1941

  The letter was addressed to Dad but, from the London postmark and the government stamps on the envelope, I knew who it was from instantly and the nature of the news it contained.

  I took the letter from the doormat and put it on the hall table but then I imagined Dad finding it, opening it with trembling hands, his face whitening as he read it. There had been a day, almost ten years ago, when his wife and daughter had left for the station and his wife had never returned home. Since then he had barely left the house, he had become consumed by the details of what had happened back then and spent his days hoping for resolution and a return to the life he had known before. This letter brought news of the parole board’s decision, but Dad had become old and frail; he could not handle the news either way, I was sure of it.

  ‘Kate!’ yelled Audrey.

  I jumped and folded the letter into my pocket, hurrying into the drawing room.

  Audrey sat on the velvet settee, her head in her hands. ‘It is the Herald again!’ she said, pointing to a letter on the coffee table. ‘And this time they have contacted me directly for a comment! It seems that nine years passing since the murder was not a big enough story for them and they are planning a big ten-year anniversary story next month – all for your mother’s crime!’

  ‘Maybe you should have just let it pass last year, Aunt Audrey,’ I said. ‘Dad and I always thought that it was best to keep quiet about everything.’

  ‘But now things are different,’ she said, taking her handkerchief to her eyes dramatically.

  ‘Well why do you think that is?’ I said sharply. ‘You were never mentioned in any of their stories nine years ago, it is only now – and thanks to your meddling – that they have your name!’

  But, despite what I had said, she heard only my disapproval of the Herald’s actions and not her own. ‘They have spoken to the prison,’ she said, her voice cracking. ‘They even know about the parole hearing, and they have asked Mr Crozier for a comment!’

  ‘Just don’t reply,’ I said. ‘They have not contacted me because they know that I won’t reply. They gave up on me long ago, and Dad.’

  ‘But just think of what else they could find out!’ she insisted.

  ‘Like I said before, someone must have noticed something about Dad stepping up as master of the Grange so quickly, but do you know what? Nobody did anything and nobody said anything. There may have been whispers in the village but nobody cared. There was so much going on in the world that they knew that this little thing did not matter. They didn’t care then and they won’t care now.’

  ‘All right,’ she said, nodding to herself. ‘All right,’ and I realised that, even though our last argument on the subject had left me shaken, I had somehow got my point across and to be reminded of the argument was enough for her.

  She put her feet up on the cushions and hugged her knees. For a long time she said nothing and I began to wonder if the upset caused by her spat with the newspaper was actually making her ill.

  ‘I am sorry,’ I said gently. ‘The thing is, Aunt Audrey, I am not like you. I don’t always understand. You see, I gave up on being accepted by society a long time ago and now I have nothing left to lose, but you still have your family’s social standing to consider. You haven’t given up because you can’t.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said quietly and I fancied that she had wiped her eyes so many times that the tears she wanted were actually coming forth. ‘You know that if the newspaper unearths your real father’s abandonment, it could affect my husband’s career?’

  ‘But he is in London,’ I said.

  ‘Indeed, but he is well known there – a famous
psychiatrist!’ she insisted.

  ‘Well, hardly—’

  ‘Ethel, Alan and Jemima cannot be teased over this at school.’

  ‘I doubt that—’

  ‘And then there is me…’ And here she stopped and once again I understood what her upset was really about. She had mentioned her husband and her children but when she spoke of them it was always concerning their connection to her – my husband, my children – and now it was clear that all she really was concerned with was the ‘me’ and the ‘I’. ‘What about that snobbish Miss Potter from the school?’ she continued. ‘And that shrew of a vicar’s wife. Oh, the society in Missensham leaves a lot to be desired for people of my class!’

  ‘I thought you said that there was no society in Missensham,’ I said. ‘In fact you are always pointing out how the tube line is not enough to connect the provincial people here to sophistications of London.’ Then I added, ‘And just talking to all those silly people at Jemima’s party made me realise that you are right.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, nodding quickly, mascara running down her face. ‘Yes, thank you, Kate.’

  ‘For what?’ I said, annoyed that she had not recognised the sarcasm in my voice.

  ‘Because you have shown me what I must do about this. It is clear to me now.’

  ‘All right then,’ I said, a little surprised. ‘Good.’

  She looked at the letter from the Herald mournfully. ‘I am sorry, Kate,’ she said after a while. ‘You are right, of course. I have always done my bit to help but I have always been thinking more of my family. I never really thought about what was best for you, and that it might not be what suited everybody else.’

  ‘It’s all right, Aunt Audrey,’ I said embarrassed. ‘No need for tears.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I could have done more when your father left you. It was Arthur who rescued you. He saved you from the social disgrace. He was there for your mother when she needed him and he just slipped into the role without question and, even now, he is doing his bit to protect you.’