by Pat Herbert
“You’re at least three months pregnant, so there is no way the baby could be mine.”
Martha hung her head. “But, sir, I don’t know what to do! You’ve got to ’elp me!”
“I’ll do everything I can to see you safely through your confinement, Martha. In the meantime, you must tell the father. He must do right by you and marry you.”
“’E won’t do that. ’E’s hardly earning anything. I don’t see ’ow ’e’ll be able to support me and my baby.”
Dr Lomax shrugged coldly. The detachment he felt was uncharacteristic, but he could feel no genuine concern for Martha’s predicament, only relief that he wasn’t responsible. It so easily could have been his. “That is not my concern. If he won’t, or can’t, marry you, then you’ll have to rely on your parents or the workhouse.”
“But can’t I stay ’ere? I can still do everything for you – cook your meals, clean the ’ouse....”
“And let everyone think that the baby is mine? Edith’s only been gone for three months.”
“You didn’t think about then when you bedded me though, did you?” Martha faced him boldly. “Anyway, your precious Edith’s a murderess. Why’d you keep bringing ’er up? She’s gone for good.”
“I’d thank you not to speak of your mistress in that way,” he said, even more coldly now. She was going to make a nuisance of herself, and he was beginning to worry. “Please adjust your clothing and get my supper.”
Martha got up off her bed where she had lain while Herbert Lomax had examined her. She wriggled into her scattered garments. “Oh, so you still expect me to get your supper, then?” she said, snivelling.
“You can continue with your duties for another week or two,” he said, looking away from her. The sight of her partially naked body wasn’t helping. He was just a man, after all. “After that, I’m sorry, but you’ll have to go. Before you start showing. You’re already putting on weight, you know.”
Martha’s snivels turned into full-scale blubbering now. “So it was all right for you to take advantage of me, but not all right now I’m expecting!”
Herbert eyed her sternly. “If the baby had been mine, it would have been a different matter. Anyway, I think the boot was very much on the other foot. You took advantage of my unhappiness that night. I admit that I slept with you, but I wouldn’t have done if you hadn’t encouraged me. I can hardly be blamed for accepting something so freely offered. You must learn to behave with more decorum, Martha, if you want to get on in this world.”
“But what am I going to do? I can’t get another position in my condition. Can’t you ’elp me get rid of it?”
He was shocked by her brutal request. “I shall pretend I didn’t hear that. I would not dream of taking the life of a helpless unborn child. It’s against everything I stand for.”
She slipped past him and out of the room. “Now, please hurry with the supper, Martha,” he called after her. “I’m hungry.”
The next day, Martha refused to stir from her bed. Herbert called through her door, concerned that his breakfast had not been prepared. “I can’t go on my rounds with nothing inside me,” he complained.
But Martha remained supine. “I ain’t well,” she said.
“A certain amount of vomiting in the early mornings is to be expected in your condition,” he told her. “But you’re a healthy young woman and it shouldn’t prevent you from doing your duties.”
“I ain’t getting up,” she asserted.
“I think you shall, Martha,” came his stern disembodied voice through the door. She had taken the precaution of locking it.
“Shan’t!”
He finally left the house, but not before he had told her to pack her bags and leave. He did not want to find her there when he got home. No more prevarication. He meant what he said. She hid her head under the blankets and sobbed quietly.
An hour later, she slowly rose and got dressed. She was an automaton, smoothing her apron and adjusting her mob cap. But she wasn’t preparing for a day’s household chores. She had come to a decision.
He had told her to go, to not be there when he returned that evening. Well, that didn’t suit her at all. She would still be there when he got home and, despite what he had said, he wouldn’t be turning her out of the house.
As Dr Lomax walked slowly along Bockhampton Road that evening, he reflected on what a mess his life had become. A wife absconded, believed to have killed three times, and now a maidservant accusing him of getting her in the family way. Herbert had never harmed a fly. He was a dedicated doctor, caring for the sick. Why had all this horror landed squarely on his none too sturdy shoulders?
He missed his wife more and more as each day passed. Sergeant Cobb had told him what Scotland Yard thought, that Edith had committed suicide because she couldn’t face up to her crimes. But Herbert, like Cobb, didn’t believe it for a single second. She was still alive, but under what conditions? If only he knew where she was. All he wanted to do was find her and help her, no matter what crimes she had committed.
The lamps were lit in the parlour as he let himself into number 57 Bockhampton Road. Not a good sign. Where was Martha? Had she lit them as a last service for him? It was possible, he thought, remembering how, in the midst of tragedy, she had placed his slippers to warm on the blood-stained hearth.
He went towards the light and opened the parlour door. The fire was lit in the grate and, yes, there they were: his slippers warming on the hearth as usual. However, there was no sign of Martha.
He sat down by the fire and pondered. He couldn’t help staring at the stained rug. He couldn’t bear it. How could he go on living here, with the reminder of what had happened staring him in the face every day? It was beyond all human endurance. His sister had written, begging him to come and stay with her and her family. But he couldn’t impose himself. She had her hands full, as it was.
He got up after about five minutes and walked into the kitchen. It was in darkness. Although everything had been normal in the parlour, the kitchen was anything but. And there was a strange smell. It wasn’t the usual smell of Martha’s cooking tonight. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so harsh. He needn’t have ordered her to go just yet.
Then he saw her. She was lying limply with her head in the gas oven. He had told her to go, and she had gone. He pulled her gently from the oven, turning off the taps as he did so. He checked for a pulse, but he was far too late. His practised eye could see she had been dead for over an hour.
The poor child, he thought bitterly. He had been a beast to her, and he was suddenly overwhelmed with pity and remorse. Where was his charity? She had been right. He had taken advantage of her. He had used her and then flung her aside as if she had been poison. He should have looked after her and seen that she got through her confinement safely. Who cared what the neighbours thought?
But he had no second chance to say sorry. It would have served no purpose, anyway. After all, he wasn’t the baby’s father. Why hadn’t she sought his help? Oh, Martha, he cried, hugging her lifeless body, what have I done?
So, once again, he would have to undergo a police investigation. The house was cursed. Another unnatural death had taken place within its walls. It was too much. But at least it wasn’t murder this time. Martha had killed herself, so he was in the clear. He looked around for a suicide note and, finding none, wondered if she could even write.
He wandered back into the parlour and looked around. Then he noticed the envelope on the mantelpiece addressed to him in an unformed, childish hand. He tore it open with a shaking hand. The scrap of note inside read:
Dear doctor,
I’m sorry for what I am about to do, but I can’t see no other way. Don’t blame yourself I want to die really its best. I only wanted to serve you, but I know you still love the mistress. I can’t face the shame of the baby neither.
Goodby, Martha.
The first thing that struck him was how good her spelling was. Apart f
rom the lack of punctuation, she was quite erudite. What an irrelevant thing to think at a time like this, he chastised himself, folding up the pathetic note that provided a meagre postscript to such a short, tragic life.
14
Elsie Proudfoot was cock of the walk. Living next door to a house where first three, then four, deaths had occurred in quick succession, gave her respect and standing in the neighbourhood. She had always been the first to know what was going on but had never had such thrilling news to impart before. Press reports were redundant in Elsie’s neck of the woods. People found out the latest titbits much sooner from her good self. The Daily Bugle and the South London Recorder might just as well have saved their ink, as far as the close-knit community surrounding Bockhampton Road was concerned.
After blackening the name of Edith Lomax forever, the local gossips turned their attention to her poor, benighted husband. They had been going to him for years with their petty ailments, but not anymore. Especially now that that nice parlour maid, Martha, was dead, and by her own hand apparently. Even though there had been a suicide note, many people had furnished it with extra salacious details straight out of their own imaginations. There was no doubt that Martha had been the doctor’s mistress and the baby she was expecting was definitely his. Joshua Corbett, the butcher’s boy, was particularly eager to ensure that everyone knew that.
Elsie, however, didn’t believe anything so bad of the doctor. However, despite her protestations, other people weren’t so charitable. Once they knew the bare facts, they lost no time in putting their own interpretation on them, the general assumption being that there was no smoke without fire.
Herbert, meanwhile, had more or less become a recluse, confined to the ‘house of death’. His patients had deserted him, and he could think of no other reason to venture out just to be stared and pointed at by the outraged neighbours. So he went on from one dreary day to another, his life crumbling around him as he did so.
After the initial shock of poor Martha’s suicide, his thoughts returned to his missing wife. Everyone had already tried, found her guilty and hanged her. Were they right? Was he being a fool to think her incapable of such inhumanity? He hadn’t been blind to Edith’s faults. She was a difficult, snobbish and often uncharitable woman. But he had never thought her so evil as to kill her own children. He looked at her photograph regularly, familiarising himself with her charming features as if he needed to remind himself what she looked like. No one with such a face could be a killer, he was convinced.
Since Martha’s sad demise, Elsie Proudfoot had proved herself indispensable to Herbert. He began to rely on his neighbour heavily to feed him and do other chores for him. As he didn’t leave the house for days on end, there was little need for much laundry. What little there was, the good lady was more than glad to oblige.
But Elsie wasn’t the only person to show concern for his wellbeing. He also received intermittent visits from Sergeant Jack Cobb. He would call on him after his day’s work was done, and the two men often whiled away the long winter evenings together over a game of chess. Herbert found himself not merely grateful for the man’s company, but also growing rather fond of him. A confirmed bachelor, Cobb also looked forward to visiting Herbert, in preference to returning to his rather austere lodgings and indifferent supper provided by the surly housekeeper he couldn’t quite find it in his heart to dismiss.
The death of Martha Finch had caused some ripples at the station, but Jack Cobb wasn’t having any of it. He knew in his bones that Martha had been a jumped up little hussy who, while not exactly deserving her fate, hadn’t done herself any favours by her loose behaviour. The note she had left, mentioning the baby, did not trouble him one jot. Dr Lomax had given his side of the story, even admitting to the good Sergeant that he had foolishly succumbed to her charms just once, and once only, he was more than ever convinced the man was blameless. And it was soon clear to him just who, in fact, was responsible for Martha’s unfortunate condition.
Joshua Corbett had come into the station in high dudgeon shortly after the news of Martha’s suicide had spread, demanding that Dr Lomax be put behind bars for causing her to do away with herself. Cobb had no means of proving it, of course, but it didn’t take a genius to work it out. Corbett was there to make sure the blame for Martha’s pregnancy was laid firmly at Herbert Lomax’s door, and not at his own. Cobb had a sneaking pity for the young lad, as he knew he lived in fear of his brutal father’s belt and, if he found out that his son had got Martha into trouble, he would be thrashed within an inch of his life. Well, he thought, old man Corbett wouldn’t find out from Sergeant Jack Cobb.
One evening, Dr Lomax and the good Sergeant were playing a peaceful game of chess when the front door bell of 57 Bockhampton Road rang through the house. It was after ten o’clock, not a time when casual visitors called. Lomax had received a few unwelcome visitors following Martha’s suicide, but lately he hadn’t been troubled so much. A brick had been hurled through the parlour window with a threatening note wrapped around it but, so far, that threat hadn’t been carried out.
Herbert rose to his feet and, going over to the window, peeked through the curtains. He saw a young, scruffy-looking individual, with a scowl on his face, standing on the doorstep. His fists were clenched, his nose was red, and his whole demeanour suggested a long and fulfilling night at a nearby hostelry. He recognised him at once.
“It’s Joshua Corbett, the butcher’s boy,” he whispered to Cobb.
“That little tyke,” grunted Sergeant Cobb. “He’s been making a nuisance of himself down at the station, blaming you for Martha’s predicament and suicide.”
“Hmmm! It’s not a social call then,” said Herbert in an ironic tone.
“Hardly. Better let him in, though, or he’ll disturb the whole neighbourhood.” They could hear him yelling through the letterbox now.
“Come out ’ere and face me like a man! I know what you done to Martha! You made ’er kill ’erself! Now come out and get what’s coming to yer!”
“I really don’t think I could face him at the moment,” sighed Herbert. “There’s been enough trouble in this household without adding to it unnecessarily.”
“I think you might find his visit illuminating, nevertheless,” advised the Sergeant.
“Oh, very well, if you think so.”
All this time, Joshua had been pulling the bell handle with impatience. He was still shouting through the letterbox: “I know you’re in there, Lomax! Come ’ere before I break your blinking door in!”
“He means business, old fellow,” smiled Cobb. “But I’d hazard his bark will be far worse than his bite.”
Herbert moved reluctantly to the front door and opened it, causing Joshua to tumble into the hall.
“About time, you rotten swine,” said the young lad, swaying unsteadily. There was no doubt that most of his bravado was as a result of the liquor he had consumed.
Lomax, seeing the true state of things, grabbed him by the collar and yanked him into the parlour where Sergeant Cobb was standing before the fireplace, hands behind his back, rocking backwards and forwards on his heels.
“Now, young sir,” said Cobb, “What is the meaning of calling at this late hour and making a nuisance of yourself with the good doctor?”
“I’ve every right, I ’ave. You lot down the nick won’t listen to me so I ain’t got no choice, ’ave I? ’E might escape the hangman’s rope, but ’e won’t escape my fists!” With that, he lunged out at Lomax who sidestepped gracefully, causing the young man to topple over and hit his head on the mantelpiece.
“Take what’s coming to yer, can’t yer!” Joshua yelled, undaunted by the blood oozing from his forehead.
“Just sit down, you stupid boy,” said Cobb, grasping him by the collar, while Joshua hit out with his fists, only making contact with the air between them. “The doctor has something to tell you, and you are going to listen whether you like it or not. Failing that,
I’ll march you home to your father who no doubt will be interested to hear what you have been doing with poor Martha down back alleys late at night. I don’t think he’ll take very kindly to that information, do you?”
It was clear that this threat had scared Joshua, for he unclenched his fists and sagged like a punctured balloon.
“Don’t tell me dad, for Gawd’s sake,” he pleaded, beginning to sniffle.
All this while, Herbert had remained silent, gazing at the scene before him, trying to make some sense of it. He now decided to speak up for himself.
“Joshua, I can assure you that I wasn’t responsible for Martha’s condition. She took her own life because she was scared of having to bring up a fatherless child.”
“Says you!” snarled Joshua. But it was clear all the stuffing had gone out of him.
“Look here, young fellow-me-lad,” said Cobb. “I will say this only once. If you don’t stop making a nuisance of yourself with Dr Lomax, I can make life very uncomfortable for you. Now get out and don’t let me catch you here again.”
“Very well, I’m going. But you ain’t ’eard the last of this....” Joshua was slurring his words and beginning to look decidedly unwell.
“I sincerely hope we have, otherwise Mr Corbett will find out what sort of a son he has spawned, if you get my drift?”
The young man sniffed and wiped his nose with his grubby sleeve. It seemed that Cobb’s drift had gone home, as he allowed himself to be escorted to the front door by the stern, but kindly, copper.
“What an unpleasant individual,” commented Herbert when Cobb returned, smiling.
“Not altogether someone whose company you’d seek out,” replied his friend with a grin. “But he has a lot to put up with.”
“You mean his father? He certainly seemed scared when you threatened to tell him was he’d been up to.”
“I’m sure that brute gives that young lad and his other kids the strap at the least provocation.”