The Dead Woman Who Lived

by Endellion Palmer

“In as much as we have one. We don’t get many corpses round here that require an autopsy. Our man then was Dr Medbury at Penzance.”

  Alistair nodded.

  “The report that was signed stated that the hyoid bone on the body was intact,” he continued. “We know from Dr Sinclair that this was incorrect. It was crushed. It’s an important mistake to have made. A correct diagnosis would have meant at the very least that the enquiry would have continued.”

  Joe Vercoe sighed and shook his head.

  “Dr Medbury signed the report. As far as we knew, he had carried out a full examination. Jamie Evans assisted him, poor lad. Medbury’s assistant had just left him, and the CC suggested we ask him for help. I was glad of that. I didn’t fancy assisting. Not too good with corpses at the best of times.”

  Having seen Joe’s reactions earlier in the day, Alistair had to agree with him.

  “Jamie said that he assisted. He also told me that Medbury was fond of a dram.”

  “One way of describing him, anyhow,” replied Joe with a twitch of his mouth that told Alistair it had been no secret.

  “But he was still capable?”

  “At the time, yes, we thought so. He wouldn’t be the first man around here to enjoy a drink. There hadn’t been talk, nor any official business over it.”

  “Is he still practicing? Or at least living here? I’d like to talk to him.”

  “He died six months ago,” said Joe. “Dropped stone dead in the churchyard one Sunday. He retired—voluntarily or not—about a year after Mrs Creed’s… unfortunate accident. He moved up to Shropshire to be near his son, after his retirement, and was buried up there.”

  Joe paused, thinking. “What does Jamie Evans have to say about it?” he asked. “The bone being broken. Don’t he remember anything about it?”

  “He says that Medbury himself insisted on doing the work, although Jamie had some doubts as to his efficacy. Jamie took notes and wrote up the report.”

  Joe gave a grimace. “That fits. He told me afterwards that the man was getting past it, but that he’d done his best to make sure everything was in order. Thinking on it, Jamie really was a bit unsure about Dr Medbury, but he had to be careful not to step on the old man’s toes. The doctor had a very good reputation; he’d been working here for nigh on twenty-five years, and not a stain on his character until very recent. It was only after his wife died that he began drinking so much.”

  Alistair nodded and thought about this.

  “So, just an honest mistake on the part of a belligerent old man?” he asked.

  “Unfortunate, but there you go.”

  Outside, the rain had begun again, and as the deluge increased, Alistair could hear the sound of the water gurgling along the gutters and through the down pipe, sucking loudly as it swirled into the drain. The side window was unlatched, and the sweet smell of wet cobbles and grass reached him. He knew it was in his head, but he felt cleaner just listening to it. He paused for a moment, looking out into the fading light, watching as a light flickered on in a house on the other side of the garden wall. He turned back.

  “Sergeant, do you still have the item of clothing the corpse was wearing?”

  Joe frowned.

  “What she was wearing?” he said. “I don’t… oh, that’s right. There was an undergarment, that was all.”

  “A slip, Mr Creed told me,” replied Alistair, and was amused at the faint blush that came over Joe Vercoe’s face.

  “If it was kept, then it’ll be boxed in the files somewhere. Once the body was identified, all that was filed away.”

  He looked curious.

  “This was what we were talking about earlier. You really think it might be important, sir?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Alistair. “But Adrien is certain that garment is tied to Trevennen. I’d like to be sure.”

  Joe looked worried. He had been thinking this over since the morning and picked up immediately on what Alistair had not said.

  “Let me have a look and I’ll get back to you. It’s all downstairs. The cellar here is fine and dry, I use it for storage.”

  “It’s dry enough for that?” Alistair was surprised.

  Joe grinned, glad to be on more suitable topics. Women’s undergarments were not something he was comfortable discussing with anyone other than his wife.

  “A great many houses round here have cellars that would rejoice your heart,” he replied. “This area was rife with smuggling years ago. We… they had to have somewhere to put all that contraband. Not that we get up to any of that any more,” he finished, with a pious look on his face that was spoiled by the glint in his eyes.

  Alistair grinned too but continued with his questions, knowing that this was going to be more difficult.

  “If I may have a little more of your time, what can you tell me about Gwenna Black?”

  Joe’s face fell. He looked uneasy, and his mouth was tight.

  “Whatever do you need to know about her for?” he asked.

  “Please, Vercoe. Indulge me. I would not ask if I didn’t think it important. She would seem to be the only other person who vanished at the same time as Mrs Creed.”

  “She was my cousin,” Joe said unwillingly. “My mam’s sister married Jago Black, and Gwenna was their child. They farmed a bit out of town, up past Mrs Evans’ place and out the Blackwater road. They still do. Gwenna was younger than me by a few years. We didn’t have much in common, even when she grew up. She had ideas, did that one.”

  “You mean Jamie Evans, and Simon Cundy?”

  Joe’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded.

  “She and those two were best of friends when they were younger. Them being gentlemen didn’t seem to matter,” he said, his mouth tight. “Later, well, I know she fancied herself in love with Jamie Evans. Good-looking boy, at least before the War. Gwenna was great friends with him and Simon. Always out together they three were, didn’t take notice of anything anyone said. Then the boys went to France, and no one saw them again for nigh on two year. Both of them sick as dogs when they came home. I know what people said about them round here, but I reckon those two nearly didn’t make it back.”

  His voice wavered just a little as he passed a hand over his eyes.

  “They didn’t show it on the outside, but sometimes when I saw Simon Cundy having one of his turns, I used to think it wasn’t so bad that Gerren Roskelly didn’t come home. My best mate, Gerren was. It would have broken my heart to see him like Simon, so nervous that a dropped barrel sent him scurrying for cover like a rabbit. There were those that laughed at Simon, but it bordered on bullying, I told them, to mock him when he was like that. He did his bit. He deserved understanding, not jokes. Although frankly, he could hold his own, that one, when pressed. Had some trouble for a while with him.”

  “Trouble?”

  “Nothing much, but he didn’t seem to know his own strength when he took a turn. Got into a couple of fights with the other lads when they pushed him too far. That stopped after he went to the hospital up north. He’s been better since.”

  Alistair went back to Joe’s mention of Gerren Roskelly, who had not come back. “You didn’t go to France yourself?” he asked.

  Joe shook his head ruefully, then rose to his feet.

  “I have this,” he said, pointing at his foot, with its stout boot and brace attached. He lifted the kettle, now boiling merrily on the fire, and filled the waiting tin pot with the steaming water. “Born with it. It won’t ever be better than this. I’m as right as can be, but I couldn’t pass the Army medical board. Couldn’t walk that far, not without the brace.”

  Alistair nodded. He heard the shame in Joe’s voice, the pain of knowing that he hadn’t been able to go with his friends, and also the unwanted relief that he had not had to suffer the same way. He had heard it before and knew there was nothing that could be said that would alleviate that conflict.

  “Shouldn’t normally have been allowed to join the police, but the superintendent knew me,” Joe c
ontinued. “Bent the rules, I suppose. And they were desperate for men at that point.”

  Alistair was in full agreement.

  “You were probably welcomed with open arms,” he said. “I know how hard it was to find good men to take over. My old secretary at the Yard had the same experience. His eyes were bad; measles as a boy. But he was the best man I had there. Couldn’t have done without him.”

  Joe nodded. “Chief Inspector Willett said you were at the Yard.”

  “For a while. During the War.”

  He didn’t say anything else. It seemed that Joe sensed that his visitor did not want to discuss it any further as he changed the subject.

  “Big place, London. Never envied anyone up there. Who’d want to live like an ant, whole anthill boiling over?”

  He flushed suddenly.

  “No offence meant, sir,” he said.

  “None taken, Vercoe,” replied Alistair with a smile. “There are times it feels very big indeed.”

  “Well, Sancreed’s definitely a small place. Not much going on most of the time. But nothing wrong with that. I manage round here. I can get anywhere on my bicycle. Don’t ever want to go anywhere else.”

  “But Gwenna Black had other ideas? She wanted to move on, perhaps?”

  Joe nodded, his ruddy face falling at her name.

  “Gwenna went into service when she left school,” he said. “Blackford Hall, over near Hayle. But she kept up with her old friends.”

  “I understand that Jamie Evans was very sick for a time.”

  Joe looked sad. “He was right ill. Miss Damaris, she did wonders. Nearly wore herself out by the time he was on the mend. Gwenna used to help out on her day off; she was the only other one that was allowed in.”

  “When did Gwenna disappear?”

  Joe thought for a moment, his brow furrowed, then excused himself and went into the next room, where Alistair heard him opening [1]drawers and the sound of paper being rifled. In less than five minutes he was back.

  “The file is downstairs, I’ll fetch it up with Mrs Creed’s and get it to you. Not sure of the exact day, but it was early April 1922. Before Easter, anyway. I still remember it being the first time ever she didn’t come and roll eggs on Easter Sunday. It was just after Mrs Creed, and all anyone could think about was that there had been another accident.”

  “But she had in fact simply run off?”

  Joe sighed. “Ran off with some man. Eventually Auntie Mabyn took a closer look round her room and saw that some of her things were gone. Just the things that Gwenna would have taken. Her best clothes. Her lipstick and that scent she used. Hairbrush and comb. Left her prayer book and Bible, although perhaps that was best, seeing as what she was up to.”

  He paused for a moment, looking pained.

  “There were letters,” he continued. “A week after she left, there was a postcard. Then a couple of letters. Precious few details. And no address. Like as not she didn’t want her dad turning up on the doorstep, creating a scene. Uncle Jago was more than capable of it. Mortified by her behaviour, he was. The last one said she was expecting a baby. Said she would write back and tell them if it was a grandson or not when it arrived. And then nothing.”

  He got up and moved stiffly to the side of room, pouring out the now brewed tea. He brought a cup to Alistair, his face strained but composed again, and took one himself.

  “We don’t talk about her now. If she survived the birth, then she’s cut herself off, for whatever reason. And if she didn’t… well, Auntie Mabyn only had the one child for a reason. Gwenna’s birth very nearly succeeded in killing her, Dr Cundy said.” He paused. “Like as not she’s buried up in London. Powerful lot of people there are up there, like you said. Not much chance if someone don’t want to be found.”

  Alistair had to agree. Unwilling to cause Joe any more anguish, he drank his tea and talked of more general subjects. When he had finished, he took his leave, promising to call back in the next day and take a look through the files. He drove back to the house on the cliff, thinking hard. A runaway girl, and a corpse that had most likely turned out to have been murdered. Gwenna Black, he thought as he pulled through the gates and up the drive towards the house. Where are you now?

  Chapter 16

  The house woke up to a damp morning the next day, the sky veiled in a shroud of dove-grey cloud, blown fine by a cool, insistent breeze. Alistair drew his dressing gown tightly around himself as he drank the hot tea he had been brought, looking out his window but seeing little. He bathed and dressed slowly, running over the results of yesterday’s business all the time, and was pleased to be able to continue the process over breakfast, which, despite his lack of haste, he took alone until his second plate of toast.

  Juliana came in as he spread marmalade thickly onto another slice. He started to get to his feet but she waved him back to his seat. She looked tired this morning, with shadows under her eyes that persisted even though she had made efforts to cover them, but he was pleased to see the lotus brooch pinned to her jumper.

  “Don’t get up, Alistair, please.”

  She looked up and down the empty table, then she glanced at her wristwatch to check the hour.

  “Has everyone been and gone, or are they still in bed? I know Adrien was still asleep. I heard him snoring when I had my bath. God knows he needs it, poor lamb.”

  “Despite the time, I think I was first down,” he replied.

  She took a tiny helping of kedgeree from the sideboard, then sat down opposite him. The heavy silver fork and knife looked huge in her hands—she seemed to have shrunk overnight.

  They ate in silence, Juliana following her savoury with a piece of toast and butter and heather honey, eaten even more slowly than the fish. Finally she sat back and sipped at her coffee, rubbing between her eyes as she did so.

  “Didn’t you sleep?” he asked her.

  She shrugged. In the light from the windows, he could see that her eyes were pink, swollen from lack of sleep. She dabbed at them with her handkerchief as if they were watering.

  “I used to get nightmares frequently, when I was first in London,” she said. “They faded over time. Last night was just like how it used to be. I think getting my memory back has caused them to resurface.”

  She looked over at him, and her hands clenched for a moment, nails biting into her palms, before she made herself relax and forced a smile.

  “How are you getting on, if I might ask?” she said, as if trying to turn the subject of the conversation away from herself.

  “Slowly,” he answered, made uneasy by her anxiety. He wondered just what her nightmares had shown her. “But that is common at the beginning. And in this case it all happened a substantial time ago.”

  She drank some more coffee and looked down at her cup, swirling the remains around.

  “I am conflicted over this investigation,” she ventured after a pause. “Part of me wants it all to be over, complete, with answers. And another part fears a conclusion. What if the truth about what happened is something terrible?”

  Alistair understood her anxiety. He had come across it before. An investigation had been set in motion, and only once the participants truly understood that they could not control the outcome did they begin to panic about what it might turn up.

  “I understand,” he answered. “A normal reaction, I think.”

  She looked up at him, intent. “Can you stop? I mean, could you stop investigating? If I wanted you to?” she asked.

  He did not answer straight away. “If I did,” he said after a moment, “then someone who tried to commit murder might walk away. Is that something you would want?”

  She listened to him, then sighed. “No, I suppose not. Because what you really mean, and what Adrien is afraid of, is that the person might do it again. I imagine that someone who has killed, or attempted to kill, might find it easier a second time.”

  He wished for a moment that she was not quite so perceptive.

  “Yes, I think that is
right,” he said. “I also think that for your own safety, we have to find out what occurred. I know your husband is…”

  She looked up and her eyes were shrewd behind their fatigue. “Adrien really has got the wind up, hasn’t he?” she asked.

  Alistair smiled at the schoolgirl language. “Yes, he has. He is worried about you. Not unnaturally.”

  Juliana’s face relaxed into a genuine smile as she acknowledged both Adrien’s concern and Alistair’s recognition of it. Her companion pressed on.

  “Actually, there was something else I was wondering about,” he asked.

  She looked interested, and keen to move on to another subject.

  “What do you want to know?” she asked.

  “Did you sign a will after you married Adrien?”

  She looked a little surprised, but answered him with a nod. “Yes, I did it when we got back here. Andrew Fenton drew it up.”

  “What were the provisions?”

  Alistair sensed that Juliana was not comfortable with the conversation, but he pressed ahead.

  “Most of it went to Adrien,” replied Juliana. “There were bequests—for example to my former maid. Nothing very exciting.”

  “And did it remain as is, or did you change it again?”

  She looked a little uneasy now, finishing her cup and refilling it before she spoke again.

  “I added some codicils about six months later,” she said, stirring her drink at unnecessary length. She paused, tapping the spoon on the edge of her cup.

  “I left money to Damaris and Jamie. I realised that their mother was not as generous to them as she might be.”

  Her tone was sharp, and she flushed as the words came out. She bit at the inside of her cheek and looked at the tabletop. When she spoke again, her tone was measured.

  “I was trying to work out a way to help them out when the… accident happened. I wanted to do it without Fancy finding out. But before then I had added them to my will. I left the same to the Clevedon girls, too.”

  Alistair nodded and drank his tea, allowing her colour to subside. He finished the last of the toast on his plate, crunching it appreciatively. The marmalade was dark amber, the chunks of peel agreeably thick and tart, just the way he preferred it.