That morning I sensed changes all around me and, as brightness began to seep from behind the curtains, I heard a change in the air as if a big dome that smothered all sound had suddenly been lifted from the earth.
The images that had been flashing constantly in my head – the necklace glimpsed through the gape of mauve fabric, the crimson scratch on the alabaster cheek, the bloodied rags in the chamber pot, the letter shrivelling into orange flames and the lifeless soldier ground into the mud – now stopped their endless assault and faded into darkness. I felt myself sinking down into the mattress as if it were bottomless as my body relaxed into the morphine of sleep.
On the bedside table, the picture of the couple on their wedding day had been turned to face the wall.
Chapter 42
January 1916
He was going out, he said, and he said it as if he was relinquishing command to a subordinate officer and expected everything to be in order when he returned. He added that he would be away for the night and not return until the following afternoon.
It was the way in which Hugh had always spoken to me, but he was not Hugh. He was the gardener, the man who lived on my property and took my wages, and the man who had just spent the night with me in my bed.
I watched him as he laced his boots and folded a jerkin into his bag, without so much as a glance at me, but then he stopped, turned to me and took my hand.
‘With the mistress’s permission,’ he added quickly.
I laughed, and he did too.
‘So where are you going?’ I said. ‘For a business meeting with Clement Walker? To the gentlemen’s club in Mayfair? For a fitting at the tailors on the Green?’
He put a hand to his face, as if in embarrassment, I thought, but then he laughed again. ‘I am going to a stud farm in Evesbridge to see about a supply of manure for the walled garden.’
‘Not something the master of Missensham Grange would do!’
‘I am sorry, Milly,’ he said earnestly. ‘I am sorry for trying to be man of the house. I am sorry for thinking that it is my right somehow.’
‘Maybe it is,’ I said. ‘If I want you to be.’
‘I do,’ he said and I think he surprised us both with his confidence and certainty. ‘If it is what you want,’ he added quickly.
He had no money to his name, but neither had Hugh when you stripped away everything that was not crumbling walls or rotted rafters. Hugh was from a bloodline routed in the gentry, that much was true, but it meant nothing about what he did with his life, and Arthur’s humble life as a gardener was somehow more meaningful. Hugh and I had hired Arthur when we married and I suddenly realised that I had spent just as much time in his company as in that of my own husband.
It was what I wanted and I told him so, and we parted with an embrace and a promise that he would wash as soon as he returned.
I watched through the bedroom window as he walked down the driveway and turned into the lane, his body disappearing into the hedgerows. It was a stupid girlish thing to do but not something that I could recall ever having done in five years of marriage to Hugh. Then I turned back to the bedroom and saw my wedding photograph on the bedside table. In the midst of my passion, I had turned the photograph to face the wall, but now in the light of day, it had somehow been righted and the eyes of the newlyweds gazed out into time itself, seeing me as I had been, was now and would be beyond.
So much had changed since my wedding day and now, as I looked at the photograph, I realised that I did not need any reminders of a husband who had betrayed me nor a man who had never truly wanted the child I so desperately craved. I put the photograph in the dressing table drawer and was about to shut it when I saw a glint of jade among the handkerchiefs and I realised that reminders of my life with Hugh were everywhere. I took the necklace from the drawer and put it in to my pocket, then I got my coat and hat and boots, and had left the house before the clock struck the hour.
*
The village green was unusually empty, just a handful of young men in army uniform who sat on the bench warming their backs in a weak ray of sunshine. I remembered how I had visited the green back in August and had seen men milling around the church hall, while women cheered them on and children shot at each other with fallen branches. A lot had happened since then and I fancied that people no longer felt like celebrating or watching their children playing soldiers.
The lines of marching men had gone too. I would never know the men behind the faces I recognised on the road that day in August. I would never hear about their lives, only their deaths. I would never speak their names, just read them from the casualty list in the newspaper. I thought that I could still hear the echo of their boots on the road.
I cut across the grass in the direction of the high street. The recruitment poster was still nailed to the oak tree, the corners curling inwards. I glanced at it as I passed, but found that I no longer saw the piercing eyes and firm jaw of Lord Kitchener but the skull of the Grim Reaper in a field marshal’s hat, his bony finger pointing past me toward the men on the bench.
‘Death wants you,’ I whispered bitterly.
I found the high street no busier than the Green, the windows of Partridge’s General Stores displaying canned foods and blankets rather than the usual array of fancy goods.
I pushed the door and entered, the bell tinkling as I stepped inside. On the right-hand side was a goldsmith’s stand and I took the necklace from my bag and handed it to the middle-aged woman behind the counter.
‘This is a lovely piece,’ she said, drawing it up to her eyepiece. ‘This hue of jade is quite rare.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘My husband brought the stones back from service in Tibet. He always said that they were the same colour as my eyes.’ But then I realised that the story that I had told so many times now sounded flat.
The woman looked up and removed her eyepiece. ‘A good husband indeed,’ she said.
‘Yes, but he is away now,’ I said, swallowing hard. ‘In the Missensham 3rds.’ Then I found myself hesitating. It was the first time that I had spoken about Hugh outside the walls of the Grange and it felt strange to speak of him as a normal husband.
The woman’s mouth fell open slightly at the mention of the Missensham 3rds and I noticed the high collar of a black mourning dress beneath her work apron, and I wondered if it was a husband or son that she had lost.
‘He is missing,’ I said quickly. ‘Missing, presumed dead.’ Then I added: ‘But I think everyone knows what that means really, don’t they?’
‘Madam, I—’
‘It’s quite all right,’ I said. ‘As it turns out he was not such a good husband.’
The woman nodded briefly, as if an understanding had been reached, and ran her hand over a display on the counter. ‘We have a wide range of mourning jewellery,’ she said, and I realised that her mourning dress was worn solely out of respect for customers such as myself. ‘These pieces are of the purest Whitby jet,’ she continued. ‘A purchase would show respect for your husband but,’ then she lowered his voice, ‘I must add that they are very reasonably priced. The sum that I would pay for jade of this quality would allow you to purchase a necklace from our mourning range and you would have money over to cover funeral costs and to buy milk and blankets for your children.’
Milk and blankets for children – it was a phrase that I had heard only recently, although I could not think where, and it made me think of the other women whose husbands were lost and children starving; the widows that must have come here, to this counter and this black-shrouded woman, to pawn things that were once so personal and I imagined the safe under the counter crammed with charm bracelets, lockets and wedding rings.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That sounds interesting. Please could you give me a price for it?’
She stepped back from the counter. ‘Please bear with me one moment. I will need to see it under the lamp.’
I found a chair by the shopfront and looked out onto the street. People were hurrying
along the pavements, their heads bent low into the cold wind. There was another poster in the butcher’s window on the opposite side of the street – the same large face with the field marshal’s cap and the thick moustache that I had seen on the village green – the word ‘YOU’ in large print under the extended finger. This time when I looked at the poster, I no longer saw Lord Kitchener or the Grim Reaper, but my husband’s face – Hugh in the field marshal’s hat with the thick moustache, his eyes fixed on me and his finger pointing from the grave.
I stood up shakily and hurried back to the counter. ‘I’m sorry,’ I called. ‘It seems I can’t part with it after all, not just yet anyway.’
The woman’s head popped round the door and she returned, holding the necklace out to me. ‘I quite understand,’ she said. ‘It is difficult to know what to do in times like this. You can always return if you change your mind again but maybe you should just wear it for now, keep it close to your heart.’
‘Yes,’ I said weakly.
‘And pass it down to your little ones to remember their dad.’
‘Yes,’ I repeated. ‘I will do that; my daughter shall wear it when she is grown.’ It was then that I realised that I might yet bear a child. Hugh was gone, but I had the love of a new man and new hope for the daughter I had always wanted. Kate might have struggled to be born into this world, but one day she would be with me.
The woman behind the counter wiggled her eyepiece back into place and studied the necklace again. ‘Tell you what,’ she said, ‘I can fix these links for you. I can do that for a couple of shillings. Then at least it will be in a good state for your daughter.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Please do that.’ Then I remembered her comment about children, about buying milk and blankets and how the words had sounded familiar. It was then that I remembered that it was a phrase that I had heard from Rosalie’s lips as she had stood on my doorstep and begged for the necklace so that she could pawn it to feed her bastard. The stones were mine and I had to make sure that they always would be. ‘Please could you also inscribe it?’ I said quickly. ‘You see, I would like to make it more personal.’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I can have it done within the hour if you need to run some errands.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘that would be perfect.’
‘Is it a name that you want?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Millicent.’
But somehow this seemed wrong and I remembered the name on Arthur’s lips that morning. The stones had been Hugh’s gift and it would be him that I remembered with this necklace. It would be the old times, times gone, times I wanted to forget and this inscription would be an epitaph.
‘No, wait,’ I said. ‘Please put the name “Mercy”. Yes, “Mercy”.’
Chapter 43
January 1916
I woke to the sound of banging. A deep echoing sound from somewhere beneath where I lay, somewhere deep in the house. At first I thought that it must be the wind from a storm but when I sat up and turned up the oil mantle, I found that the house was calm and that the bedroom clock said two in the morning.
I patted the mattress beside me but it was cold and empty and I remembered that Arthur was away at the stud farm in Evesbridge.
Then there were more, louder bangs and I held my breath and listened until I could trace the sound as coming from the back of the house, the kitchen door. I threw on my overcoat and boots and took the lamp down the stairs. I waited in the kitchen until the bangs came again and then they stopped. Then came a quiet whimpering sound and I realised that the maker was in need and not a threat. I opened the door.
I did not recognise her at first as she had collapsed on the doorstep, but then she raised her head and I saw her pitiful face, she did not need to explain what was happening and why she had come. It was her time, she was alone and had nothing. I was her only hope.
I did not invite her in, just hauled her over the doorstep.
‘You can use the laundry room,’ I said, pulling her towards the corridor. ‘I’m afraid that the furniture is gone from your old room. I had to sell it to pay the bills.’
She nodded but then her body seemed to stiffen and she let out the most terrible scream, her fingers like a vice on my arm.
After a few seconds her body went limp and her breathing slowed again and I saw her waters pooled on the flagstones beneath her.
‘No,’ I said, pulling her upright. ‘You will walk while you still can,’ and I led her through the door of the laundry room. ‘You can use the child’s mattress that is on the floor,’ I said, letting her sink down on to the mattress. ‘I’m afraid Igor has been using it, but I can offer you no more given the circumstances. I’m sure you understand.’
She nodded. ‘Thank you, Millicent,’ she said and there was actually some relief in her voice as if my meagre offerings had been genuine acts of kindness.
‘There’s no one else here tonight,’ I said. ‘I will have to go to the telephone box on the Green to ring for a midwife.’ I hurried to the front door and pulled on my coat, I waited for a moment as another scream echoed through the house, but when it stopped I stepped out into the darkness.
When I reached the lane I found I was breathing fast. The hedges cast long shadows but I was thankful for the full moon.
When I reached the phone box I asked to be connected to the doctor’s house, for I did not know the name of a midwife, but the operator said that she would pass on the message and send out someone local. I agreed and gave the address of the Grange but then I added that the operator was to pass on that the midwife must be discreet and use the servants’ entrance.
When I returned, Rosalie was breathing heavily and was more at peace. She lay on her side as if toppled by the weight of her huge belly, a burden she could no longer carry.
‘Millicent, I am sorry about everything,’ she said.
I thought that she jolly well wasn’t sorry and that her repentance was only due to the pain reminding her or her own mortality. I did not say this though, for she had collapsed exhausted as if the contractions had severed her connection with her surroundings and she would have barely heard my words or seen me utter them.
Then she gasped again and clawed at the mattress, thrashing about as if the pain would drive her insane.
When it had faded she sobbed gently. ‘Stay with me, Millicent,’ she wept. ‘I was so scared when you left me. I am so scared to be alone.’
I sat on the floor and put my head in my hands. I would stay if it calmed her, but I would offer no more comfort than that. I closed my eyes and listened to the tick of the clock. Her breathing would slow for several minutes but then she would groan in anticipation, I thought, because then there would be a gasp until the pain subsided again and the stillness would return.
After a while I realised that the periods of stillness were becoming shorter and the gasps had become cries and then screams. I could bear it no longer. I ran for Hugh’s gin and forced the neck of the bottle into her mouth, the bitter liquid trickling down her chin.
The warm shock of the alcohol seemed to quieten her for a little and she lay back, panting, waiting for the next wave of agony to come.
‘I should like a boy,’ she said quietly, ‘so that I may call him Hugh. The child should have something to remember his father by, and a name is all that I can give him.’ She paused, but when I did not answer she continued. ‘My son should know that his father was kind and loving. That he had enough love for both you and I.’
I could not listen any more. ‘You are delirious,’ I said. ‘If he loved us then where is he now when we need him? That man was a poor master of this house and a worse husband, I’m sure that he would have made an equally poor father to your bastard.’
‘You speak ill of the dead, Millicent!’ she cried.
‘I do,’ I said. ‘He may have charmed you with red peonies from his wife’s own garden, but what else did he ever give you?’
‘A child,’ she said simply. ‘He has given me a child.�
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‘He has given you ruin!’ I shouted.
She gasped a little and I wondered if a little of her situation was starting to sink in, but she was looking past me. A woman stood in the doorway, she was a woman in her prime but stocky with a plump face, her short frame swallowed by the cloak of a midwife.
‘I let myself in,’ she said, then added curtly, ‘I followed the shouting.’
The midwife set down her bag and knelt on the floor. She parted Rosalie’s knees and lifted her skirts, examining her bloated, horrid flesh. Then she stood up and took me aside.
‘This is a big house,’ she said, looking at the dog’s bed. ‘Is this really the best you can do?’
‘She’s just a maid,’ I said.
‘She is still a woman,’ she said, puckering her lips disapprovingly and I fancied that she was one of the new classes of professional women who were self-assured and believed that their training counted more than their class and did not care how they spoke to their betters.
‘The master of the house won’t have her upstairs,’ I said firmly.
She opened her mouth but then Rosalie screamed again and she dropped to the floor. ‘Just grab on to my hand, sweetheart,’ she said. When Rosalie’s grip eventually loosened, the midwife took her hand and rubbed the fingers. ‘No wedding ring,’ she said sharply. ‘Well that explains it, she’s barely a child herself. Where’s the bastard that did this?’
I looked at Rosalie and at last caught her eye. ‘Oh he was a kind and loving man,’ I said pointedly. ‘A man so kind that he left her.’ I turned to go. ‘I have other duties’ I said, ‘I’m afraid that this is taking too long.’
‘No you don’t!’ the midwife said. ‘She’s ready to push. You have got her this far and I may need your help.’
I sat back down on the cold floor of the laundry room, dreading that I was about to witness the birth of Hugh’s only child – a baby that was not my own.
The Murderess Page 23