by Granger, Ann
‘He is anxious to point out to us that the letter makes clear his wife had no part in the murder of Rachel Sawyer. We have no evidence to the contrary and she will not be charged with that,’ I told Lizzie that evening.
‘And the murder of her uncle?’ Lizzie asked.
‘Pelham won’t want to lose two clients to the hangman at once. It would damage his reputation! He will fight to save her from the gallows and he may succeed. Lamont wrote of what Amelia “did that day” but he does not specify in his letter exactly what it was she did. When questioned on that sentence, he said it referred to the guilt she had always felt for having panicked when she found her uncle dead before the parlour fire. Instead of calling the doctor immediately and leaving the body where it was, she ordered that Isaiah Sheldon be taken upstairs. Instead of laying him out decently, she quite lost her head and ordered the application of mustard plasters. She has always felt since, claims Lamont, that she treated the corpse with disrespect.
‘Well, I don’t think that explanation will wash! But it still leaves it unclear to what he referred in the letter.
‘At any rate, neither Rachel nor Mills can be called to the witness stand. Pelham will seek to get the charges against her reduced, if not dismissed. If convicted of anything, I fancy she will face prison, but not the rope.’
Lizzie shuddered. ‘She would not survive long in prison,’ she said simply.
‘She is a strong and resourceful woman,’ I countered.
‘She will have nothing, no future, to survive a term of imprisonment for,’ Lizzie replied.
I was not sure I agreed, but Lizzie’s mind was made up on that point so we fell silent, sitting in our tiny parlour with the tea table between us. A muffled clang in the distance told us Bessie washed up with her usual vigour.
Suddenly, Lizzie asked, ‘Did Canning come to the Yard today with his solicitor?’
‘Oh, yes, he did, I forgot to tell you,’ I admitted. ‘I didn’t see him myself. I understand Dunn delivered a stern lecture to him about wasting police time, and sent him on his way.’
‘I wonder how that will end,’ said Lizzie.
Elizabeth Martin Ross
We were soon to find out. The following evening Ben returned home with a letter, delivered to him at the Yard. It was from Miss Alice Stephens and requested that, if convenient, both he and his wife would take tea with her and her niece at their hotel, the coming Sunday. They were to return to Southampton on the following Monday.
Jane Canning and her desperate situation had been a great deal on my mind. From everything Ben had told me, I found it difficult to imagine that the odious Hubert Canning would agree to anything that would please his wife. The discussions that had been taking place in the few days since her return with their daughter from Southampton could only have been acrimonious. Miss Stephens appeared to have great confidence in a certain Mr Quartermain. But I have come across the Cannings of this world in the past. Their self-esteem coats them like armour. They can seldom be brought to concede the smallest thing or admit any point of view but their own. Certainly, from Ben’s account, Canning had never done so. The only time he’d agreed to anything Jane wanted was in hiring the nursemaid, Ellen Brady.
My one hope was that Canning might have been so alarmed by being obliged to go to Scotland Yard, with his solicitor, and receive what amounted to a dressing-down by Superintendent Dunn, that he might be persuaded to offer something to bring about a speedy settlement. Dunn’s stern warning might sway him where his wife’s feelings would not.
There was something else. It was clear he wanted his child returned under his roof. But he didn’t care twopence where Jane went. My personal opinion was that Jane had not turned out the domestic mouse he’d anticipated when he married her, and he had become anxious to be rid of her. But not through divorce, which would make it a public matter. Instead he’d planned to pack her off privately to the notorious clinic. As for the child, that was a different matter. She would one day be his heiress. He would want to keep her close, to exercise the control over her, in fact, that Isaiah Sheldon had once wanted to exert over Amelia. Poor little Charlotte, she would discover, as she grew older, just what a dictator her papa was.
The hotel was small but neatly appointed, very quiet, and clearly much in use by elderly ladies. The air bore the odours of lavender water and cough drops. Miss Stephens explained to us that she had arranged with the management to have private use of the hotel’s library that afternoon. I decided, when we entered the cramped room, that the management had not made any particularly generous gesture. I couldn’t think anyone else would want to use it. The title ‘library’ was exaggerated. The reading matter on offer consisted of an assortment of magazines, some improving literature donated by various religious organisations, and the complete set, in several bound volumes, of a biography of Albert, the late Prince Consort. The chairs were hard. The carpet was worn and did not fit the floor space, suggesting it had come from elsewhere, demoted to this seldom-visited nook. The motley collection of dried flowers and foliage in an ugly urn, filling the hearth, needed to be taken out and dusted, or preferably thrown away.
We all squeezed in, the ladies’ crinolines taking up so much of the available space that Ben found himself pinned against the wall. Tea was brought by a maid nearly as old as most of the residents must be.
‘Jane and I are most obliged to you both for coming,’ Miss Stephens said. ‘We are delighted to make your acquaintance, Mrs Ross.’
I returned the compliment. The truth was, when Ben had told me of the invitation, nothing would have prevented my coming along. I was anxious to meet both women. Miss Stephens was much as I would have expected: a prim maiden lady of high principles but who would have little understanding of the wretchedness in a bad marriage. She had been shocked into offering her niece sanctuary. If Jane had simply written from St John’s Wood and requested that she be allowed to return to Southampton, leaving her husband, Miss Stephens would have refused outright. Jane would probably have received a letter reminding her of her ‘duty’. But the exhausted, emaciated and barefoot wretch who had appeared on her doorstep could not be refused.
Miss Stephens had once accepted that Canning would make a suitable husband for Jane. Now, perhaps predictably, she had made a complete about-face and Hubert Canning had become the enemy. Canning had let Miss Stephens down. He had presented her with an unwished dilemma. Canning had not kept his part of the bargain. He had called Miss Stephens’s powers of judgement into question. Canning had failed in his Duty.
My real interest lay in observing Jane Canning. She must look much healthier now than when she’d arrived on her aunt’s doorstep. But she was still very thin and obviously deeply unhappy. Her misery could be read in the early lines that aged her features, and in the continual twisting of her hands in her lap. I wished I had Hubert Canning before me so that I could tell him to his face what I thought of him. It surprised me, and I think Ben also, when Jane now spoke up.
‘I understand, Inspector Ross, that my husband does not wish to press any charges against me with regard to my having taken our child when I left home.’
‘It is largely a domestic matter, Mrs Canning, that is the Yard’s view,’ Ben replied. ‘We found the child reported missing by her father. You have returned your daughter. Charges would be difficult to frame, involve more public expenditure and frankly we have other fish to fry, as the saying goes. What happens now, that is between you and Mr Canning. He agrees. I think he is anxious to have the police out of his life. Perhaps you’ve reached some decision?’
Miss Stephens spoke abruptly. ‘The wretched man wants the whole business expunged, rubbed out as if written on a slate.’
Having spoken, Miss Stephens clamped her lips together lest harsher words escape them.
Jane, after a glance at her aunt, took up the conversation again. ‘My aunt has been more than kind and supportive. She engaged a lawyer to act for me, as you know, Mr Quartermain. She felt it would be better
than we two women trying to deal with Hubert. Mr Quartermain explained to me that, in the eyes of the law, my husband is the aggrieved party. I have no grounds on which to divorce him.’
Miss Stephens twitched at the sound of the dreaded word ‘divorce’, but managed to keep silent.
‘He certainly has grounds to divorce me, on the other hand.’ Jane gave a rueful smile. She sounded remarkably calm and practical. I wondered how long the effort of maintaining this could last.
‘I deserted him,’ Jane continued. ‘I took his daughter without his permission and lived with Charlotte as a vagrant on the streets of London and on the open road. We begged food and drank from streams and horse troughs. Twice kind farmers allowed us to sleep in a barn. Otherwise, we crawled into the hedgerows for shelter.’ Her calm façade cracked a little and she looked down at her hands, now tightly clasped as if to stop that relentless twisting by force. ‘I cannot tell you how horrified I am now to think of my own actions, and the harm that might have befallen Charlotte. I can only say that rational judgement had deserted me, arising from my fears of being incarcerated in some asylum, or those spas to which they send women who are – difficult.’
‘I am a police officer and not any kind of judge,’ Ben told her gently.
‘But you are a kind man, kind to me and to Charlotte from the first time we met you near Waterloo that night. I am grateful.’
I could see that Ben was at a loss to reply. He gestured feebly at her to go on.
Jane continued more briskly. ‘Hubert does not wish to divorce me for fear of public scandal.’
And for fear of the details of his treatment of his wife becoming common knowledge! I thought.
At this point Miss Stephens made a stifled sound as if she would clear her throat, but intended to announce she wished to make a statement. Her niece threw her a nervous glance.
‘I cannot find words to condone Mr Canning’s behaviour,’ Miss Stephens began, ‘but that is the one point on which he and I are agreed. There is no question of a public divorce hearing in an open court! It is quite unacceptable to have anyone and everyone know the details of one’s domestic existence. To have reporters sitting there and listening, scribbling it all down to print in their newspapers? No, no, it cannot be entertained. There is an inelegant but apt saying: one does not wash one’s dirty linen in public.’
Miss Stephens shook her head. ‘No such thing will happen in this case. If Jane is to return to live with me in Southampton, there will be unavoidable gossip. We accept that, but we must hope to ride it out. However, for her to return as a divorced woman is unthinkable. I am involved with several charitable committees and the ladies who are engaged in such good work must be above scandal. I would be asked to resign by the committees. Mr Quartermain understands that.’
So did I. Miss Stephens felt obliged to offer Jane a home, if needed. But the offer would be withdrawn if Jane were a divorced woman. So much for the charitable ladies and their good works! I thought furiously. I caught Ben’s eye on me and fought back the words on my tongue.
Jane intervened hastily to take up the explanation. ‘After much negotiation conducted by Mr Quartermain, to whom I am extremely grateful, Hubert has consented to a separation without a divorce. The details have been agreed. I am to return to Southampton and live with Aunt Alice. In the first instance, Hubert will explain my absence by telling everyone here that I have returned to care for my aunt who is ill. After a while, people will forget to ask where I am or accept that I will not reappear. That is Hubert’s hope. People may assume that I am indeed locked up in some institution and delicacy will prevent them asking for details.
‘Hubert will make me a monthly allowance so that I shall not be a financial burden on my aunt. I am not to discuss our private affairs with anyone. I am to conduct myself with what Hubert calls “decorum”. I am above all to avoid any contact with the wine shippers with whom he does business.’
Jane’s voice faltered. ‘Our daughter is to remain in London with him. It is the hardest condition but I must accept it. No court would grant me custody.’ Jane looked at Ben and essayed a faint smile. ‘Officers, when they arrest pickpockets and such people, often invite them to “come quietly”, or so I’ve heard.’
Ben smiled back at her. ‘They do sometimes say that. I’ve never said it, even as a young constable, or don’t recollect doing so.’
Jane’s smile had already faded. ‘Well, then, I am to “go quietly”. In return for my cooperation in all ways, I am to be permitted three visits a year to Charlotte. One will be at Christmas, one at Easter and one on her birthday, which falls in July. I am to make no other attempts to see her or communicate with her, or the visits will cease and not be restored. I have managed to persuade Hubert that Ellen Brady shall remain as nursemaid for the time being. That is so that Charlotte will be in the day-to-day care of someone she knows and trusts.’
‘The nursemaid expressed great fondness for your daughter when I spoke to her,’ Ben said.
Jane nodded. ‘Ellen is a good, kind girl and Charlotte loves her. I was quite surprised that Hubert agreed to her remaining as nursemaid. I do fear that Mrs Bell, who has never liked Ellen because she did not engage her, will prevail upon him to dismiss her eventually.’
Miss Stephens spoke up. ‘Canning will not dismiss the girl too soon because he will fear she will go to another household and gossip. It is the best solution to this sorry situation that we could hope for. It is all due to the efforts of Mr Quartermain.’
Jane turned to me. ‘I don’t know what you think of us, Mrs Ross, and of all this. But I want you to know that I do believe Hubert loves his daughter. He wishes to be free of me, but Charlotte’s welfare is another concern altogether. He will look after her. I would not have you think I am leaving my child in the care of someone who has no interest in her wellbeing. I know she will be excellently cared for.’
There is a world of difference between ‘excellently cared for’ and ‘loved’. But I told Jane I understood. It all confirmed what I’d been thinking earlier. I added that I was glad everything had been settled so quickly and that she was not to be cut off from her daughter completely.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It is more than I expected. Hubert can be vindictive. But Mr Quartermain persuaded him how important it would be to Charlotte.’
There was no more to be said. We drank our tea. The maid popped her head through the door and offered to ‘refresh the pot’, but we refused and rose to take our leave. Miss Stephens thanked us again for coming and told us that she had arranged with the cabman who had brought them to the hotel to return on Monday and take them to Waterloo.
‘He is a man of most alarming appearance,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘but he selected this hotel for us so his judgement is sound.’
‘His name is Wally Slater,’ I told her. ‘You may rely on him completely.’
Ben and I walked slowly together down the road in silence. I slipped my hand into his and he squeezed my fingers. An omnibus came rumbling by, the hooves of the sweating horses clattering on the road. Ben hailed it and we climbed aboard and made our way homeward.
I do not think either of us was ever more pleased to approach our little house within earshot of the great railway at work at Waterloo. The great engines groaned and clanked behind us as we crossed the bridge. Great clouds of steam billowed into the air. There were pleasure craft on the river. Folk wore their best. Bessie opened the door to us with a broad grin and a ‘Here you are, then!’ which is not the way any well-trained maid should greet her returning employers. Constable Biddle, off duty, was sitting in the kitchen with his latest delivery of lurid reading. An empty plate scattered with cake crumbs was before him. His Sunday suit was near to bursting at the seams and his collar had lost a stud and was askew. Home had never appeared such a warm and welcoming place.
Chapter Twenty
IT WAS almost two weeks since I had visited Miss Stephens and Jane Canning with Ben. They had returned to Southampton. Ben had new cas
es to investigate and I was back in Aunt Parry’s over-furnished drawing room, drinking tea and listening to her litany of complaints. She now moved on effortlessly to the next of these. Frank had left London to visit his prospective new constituency. But he had written to her with a description of the place and community he would in future represent (providing he was elected).
‘It does not sound the kind of place I would have wished for him,’ she lamented. ‘I had hoped for some peaceful rural constituency where he might follow the pursuits of a country gentleman. Instead it is a place where they make all manner of pottery, the whole population engaged in it. The air glows red all night, Frank writes, from the furnaces that never go out. Great clouds of smoke hang constantly above, and can be seen from miles away.’
‘I think Frank would find a rural constituency a trifle dull. He has always liked to be where things are happening and to face a challenge. He adapted to life in Russia and, after that, to life in China,’ I went on to assure her. ‘He will have no problem adapting to his new situation.’
‘I dare say,’ said Aunt Parry, clearly unconvinced. ‘He also writes he is considering becoming engaged to be married.’
Goodness! I thought. Frank has wasted no time.
Aunt Parry paused to take solace in a buttered scone. ‘I do hope he has chosen wisely. Her name is Patience Wellings. I have looked in several books of reference, but I cannot find her family. I understand her father is in commerce. My late husband, Josiah, was in commerce and so I have no objection to that. It is just that I had hoped for a more elevated connection for Frank.’
I was relieved to hear that Frank appeared to have been guided by common sense. I said I looked forward to meeting Miss Wellings.