The Dead Woman Who Lived

by Endellion Palmer

  He took a cigarette from the box on the table and lit it. The room was warm now, the fire burning bright in the hearth, piled high with logs.

  “But he had an alibi for that night. He was the one person who could not have been here.” Mags was astounded.

  “The alibi seemed unbreakable, until I went to Plymouth myself. The wall outside Jamie’s room has a stout drainpipe, it wouldn’t be difficult for a strong young man to get up there. Not one with agility and a good head for heights. If Jamie did not in fact reach home when he said he did, but several hours later, and got into the house without being seen, it would be easy to walk downstairs in search of a cup of cocoa, something he often did, and pretend he had been there all along. The niece, Lucy, always went out on a Saturday evening. Her aunt was at home, but dozed frequently over her wireless programs and was partial to a tipple; I am sure all the lodgers knew it. Jamie just had to say he had arrived earlier. She was not going to admit she fell asleep over a drink, so she agreed that Jamie had come back just when he said he did.”

  “But I saw him get on the train. I waved to him as it drew out!” said Mags.

  “He was on the train. But his luck was in. That day was one of Gracie’s days off that coincided with Gerry Roskelly himself working. The train actually stopped at the end of the cottage gardens, and Jamie slipped off without having to risk jumping in the dark and started to walk back to the house. He saw you, Juliana, going to the Roscarrock. Luckily you turned towards him when he snatched the envelope from you. If you had pitched off there head first, then nothing could have saved you.”

  Adrien pulled her closer to him, and Juliana was glad of his solid warmth as she thought back to those terrifying moments hanging under the cliff.

  “And then he simply went back to Plymouth as if nothing had happened?” she said.

  “The safest plan was to make for home and get into his rooms unseen. He didn’t know if you were alive or dead, and his presence back at the house after such a public departure would raise alarms. Best at the very least to muddy the waters. He slipped back to the house to change coats—he knew the staff were away and it was unlikely he’d be seen. In case you survived and remembered someone in a coat from the house, he had to change. So the tweed was hanging up wet when you got back, Adrien.”

  “I had wondered about that,” said Adrien. “Although the storm really must have been a bonus. There can’t have been anyone about to see him walk back to the station and get on the next train.”

  “Absolutely. That night must have been nightmarish for him. Not knowing your fate. Not knowing if anyone had seen him. Damaris said she heard him choking when she told him that you had disappeared. Mr Abbott said he nearly fainted in the office. Relief, probably. It certainly sounded like you had died. Why would your wedding ring be in a rock pool unless it had slipped from your finger as your body washed off the rocks? You had complained of it being loose. He couldn’t have foreseen that you would actually take the things off, right there on the cliff.”

  Adrien shook his head, his eyes sad. “When the body failed to turn up, he must have panicked. What did he go through then?” he said, not unkindly. “He hid it well. I don’t remember him being anything other than broken-hearted, like the rest of us.”

  It seemed like each of them was having trouble, even now, seeing Jamie as the evildoer amongst them. Alistair nodded.

  “Not only had he killed a woman he loved, it was all for naught. And then Simon delivered him the perfect way out. From what I understand, Simon struck out at Gwenna after a quarrel and she was knocked unconscious. Simon was probably horrified at what he had done. I can imagine that Jamie offered to make sure she was all right. Instead he strangled her and set about creating an illusion.”

  Adrien looked a bit sick. Juliana rubbed her head against him, snuggling closer, and he looked up.

  “So,” he ventured, frowning as he thought it out, “he faked the necessary injuries to Gwenna’s body to make it appear as Juliana. He dressed her in one of Juliana’s underslips, not noticing the rip, or not caring. He could not foresee that I would make the connection three years later.”

  “That is how I see it,” said Alistair, drinking some more whisky. None of it was quite enough to get rid of the sour taste in his mouth. The case was closed, but as so often happened, the results were bitter indeed.

  “Physically the two women were very similar,” he continued, “although none of you mentioned it.”

  Sylvia broke in here. “I suppose you are right,” she said, gazing at Juliana as though she had never seen her properly before. “Although I never looked at them and saw it, they were both small, with blond hair and fair skin and that slim build.”

  “Exactly. Their facial features were completely different, but by the time Gwenna’s body turned up in the nets, there was little left of her face. And to all intents and purposes, Gwenna Black had run away to London.”

  “But the letters?” asked Sylvia. “Mabyn herself said they were from Gwenna.”

  “All Jamie’s doing. Damaris told me once that he could imitate handwriting, and he admitted to using his talent at school to earn money.”

  Juliana started. She remembered him saying this. She sat up straight.

  “Of course,” she said. “And he had known Gwenna since they were children; he would know her writing. And he knew her. What she was like at heart. He could write the sort of letters that would convince her parents that they came from her.”

  “He didn’t need to send many. A postcard to start, a couple of letters. No address, naturally, as if she was afraid that her father would come to bring her home. A final letter months later, hinting at trouble with a pregnancy. Knowing of Mrs Black’s troubles, as everyone in the town seemed to, this was a perfect way to end the saga. It would be assumed that Gwenna had most likely died in childbirth. All that Jamie had to do was make it appear that she was still alive and well after the body here was found. He travelled to London with Mr Abbot often enough to be able to do so.”

  “But he strangled her originally. Wouldn’t that risk exposure?” asked Sylvia.

  “Jamie knew that if the body was found, then Medbury would be brought in. He knew the old man’s reputation. How set in his ways he was. How unlikely it was that he would see a body that had been taken from the sea, know what had happened to Juliana and come to any other conclusion. He was looking for proof that it was Juliana Creed, who had apparently fallen over a cliff. Not for signs that someone had been strangled. And then fate played into Jamie’s hands. The police asked if he would assist.”

  Alistair did not want to think of how the news that Gwenna had been used so cruelly by her childhood friend would be taken by Jago and Mabyn Black. He had seen the beginnings of realisation in Joe Vercoe’s eyes that evening, knowing Jamie had been behind it all.

  He had realised after his trip to the farm that it would not have been difficult to get into Gwenna’s room without ever setting foot inside the main house. Jamie had known Gwenna well. It would not have been difficult to make a good guess at what she would take, what she would value most. The one thing he had not taken was a toothbrush, because that would have meant venturing into the kitchen. And then the trip somewhere quiet, where he could dispose of the case and its contents for good. An old well, perhaps. Or an abandoned working.

  There was a knock on the door and Ada appeared with a tray of coffee. She looked distraught, but there was a sense of relief in her eyes that the saga was at an end. Sylvia took the tray from her with a word of thanks, then returned to the group seated near the fire and began to pour out cups of the strong brew for everyone. She sugared them all liberally and refused any reluctance.

  “Nonsense,” she said. “We all need to keep strong at the moment. Drink the coffee. We don’t need anyone else falling apart on us. Poor Didi is going to need all the support she can get.”

  No one demurred, not even when she passed round a plate of shortbread and insisted upon everyone taking a piece. Sylvi
a did not habitually say much, but when she did, it was wiser to simply go along with her.

  As she crunched on the shortbread, shaking the crumbs back onto the tray, she looked coolly at Alistair.

  “So Fancy was never intended to die,” she stated.

  Alistair shook his head. “Fancy’s death made no sense to me. She was widely disliked, but I could not imagine any of you taking dislike, however strong, as cause to commit murder. And it was definitely intended to be murder. The only thing that prevented it from being Juliana who drank the poison was the entirely unseen accident with the decanters that morning.”

  All the faces looking at him swivelled in various directions to look at the heavy oak holding the decanters. Each one had been tested, and then emptied away anyway and scrubbed out thoroughly with silver sand and soap. They were still empty. The liquids in the glasses around the room had come from Adrien’s study, where he had been keeping them in a locked cupboard.

  “Whoever added the poison to the decanter had to have been in a hurry. There was a limited time that day for the poison to be added. After his attempt at the quarry to kill Juliana, when the dog drank the doctored ginger beer, Jamie was getting worried. You were all out that morning, so he had to be very quick.”

  He finished his shortbread, glad of it and the coffee. He had been under increasing pressure the last couple of days, beginning to see a pattern emerge, but uncertain of how to prove what he thought was the truth.

  “I discounted Jamie initially, when it appeared that Fancy was the intended victim. His anguish was real. I could not believe that he would kill his mother. And to his credit, he did not intend that Florence be hanged for his crime. When Inspector Willett decided that Florence had taken her revenge upon a mistress she was widely known to detest, Jamie took the rather drastic step of faking a murder attempt upon himself. His idea was to take the chloral and then make a noise loud enough for Damaris to hear so that she would find him, and bring him round without too much effort. Florence would then be counted out, being in the cell at the police station. And he could retrieve the vial easily when the fuss had died down.”

  Mags looked over.

  “Where was it hidden?” she asked. “I take it you’ve found it?”

  Alistair nodded.

  “It was in one of the posts of his bed. Tied to a string and let down inside the hollow post, the knob screwed back on with a little glue added to make sure it did not give easily. I saw the glue on his desk and didn’t think about it at the time,” he said.

  The hiding place had come to him in the middle of the night. In his dorm at school, when he had shared a room with Adrien and six others, the beds had been metal-framed, with immense brass knobs that were so easy to unscrew that they were habitually used by the boys to hide contraband.

  “However, chloral is notoriously easy to misjudge. He was already stressed and had taken some alcohol with lunch. He had another whisky, perhaps to give himself courage, then took too much of the drug, and it overcame him before he could ensure that Damaris would come through. Something made her uneasy, though, and she found him just in time.”

  Adrien whistled.

  “It was a smart idea,” he said. “It saved Florence, and at the same time removed him from the list of suspects.”

  The door opened, and they all looked up to find Damaris, leaning on Helena’s arm, looking entirely wretched. Juliana rushed to her, and embraced her, before taking her hand and leading her back to the settee, to sit next to her and Mags. She was provided with coffee, and Mags insisted she drink it before anything was said.

  “I want to be with you all, please. I know you are talking about Jamie, but I can’t be away from you all. What he has done is unforgiveable. But I can’t stop thinking of him.”

  Damaris looked across at Alistair. “How did you know? You knew him less than anyone here. How could you see, when I could not?”

  Alistair’s heart broke for her, watching her as she sat next to Juliana, shrinking away from the warmth of the woman her brother had tried to kill. Juliana ignored her, and took her hand, refusing to give her up.

  “I didn’t consider him, not at first. His alibi seemed so clear. Simon was the one I thought most likely. He could easily have been roaming about that night. Helena confirmed that he had been in the town that very afternoon. Sylvia saw him the next day. I wondered if Juliana had been mistaken about the coat; that perhaps it had simply been a similar one. Damp tweed under the fingers feels much the same in the cold. Simon had such a coat—it was still in his hut this winter, although he had not worn it for years. It would not have taken much for her to mistake it for the one in the house, although that did not explain why Adrien’s old coat was wet.”

  He paused for a moment, thinking back to that morning.

  “If Simon had pushed Juliana for whatever reason—whether he had known what he was doing or not—it didn’t seem to leave much impression on him. And I thought that unlikely. He had been a Quaker, and clearly believed in their precepts. He refused to fight in the War, an action which led to him to be labelled a coward for some. It did not seem reasonable to me that he would go so far over his beliefs only to throw them up and start murdering innocent people later on.”

  Damaris groaned, and Juliana leaned forward, grabbing her hand. The girl was almost beside herself with grief, clinging to the people around her, as if their support could cancel out the evil her brother had made.

  “How could he kill Simon? He loved Simon most of all.”

  Damaris’ voice was raw, her confusion evident.

  “And how?” Adrien asked. “As far as we knew he hadn’t been out of the house for days.”

  Alistair regarded Damaris sadly. “When I got back this morning, to tell you about his death, you were complaining of not having been able to wake up properly. You had overslept, during which time Jamie had apparently slipped and fallen on the stairs. I think Jamie drugged you, to give himself time. He slipped out early and went to Simon, who had been increasingly anxious. Perhaps he asked Jamie some awkward questions on that last visit he made here. He had also just been questioned by the inspector. Jamie knew he would have to find out what Simon knew.”

  He looked at Didi with sympathy. “That was why you were so groggy this morning.”

  She looked up, surprised. “I went through to him in the middle of the night. He called me. He said he had woken from a bad dream. We had a cup of cocoa together. I really did feel awful this morning, and I was up much later than normal.”

  Helena broke in. “So he needed time to get out of the house and not be seen. He must have gone early even so.”

  “Simon insisted upon going home last night, despite being so sick after Inspector Willett released him,” said Alistair. “Perhaps he knew Jamie would come to him. He started drinking, for Dutch courage, perhaps, and started to write a letter, explaining what had been happening. When Jamie arrived, Simon told him that he was going to go to the police, that he knew what had happened. They fought, and tragically for him, Simon took a fit. While he was unable to help himself, Jamie killed him, and managed to fake part of Simon’s letter to look like a suicide note.”

  Adrien looked thoughtful. “So afterwards, he slipped home and realised that he had to cover up the damage to his face and hands that Simon had inflicted. So he pretended he had fallen downstairs. Given how weak he has been, no one would question his fall. It seems such a wild plan, Alistair. It could all have gone wrong at any point.”

  Alistair was in agreement. “Like I said before, I do not believe that any of it was planned. And by the time Jamie killed Simon, he was seriously ill in his head. Everything was unravelling around him. Juliana was still alive; she might still remember the identity of her attacker on the clifftop at any point. He had blundered from murder to murder. And Simon started to suspect it all. Jamie mentioned tonight that he had been talking in his sleep again, and you, Damaris, had said that his nightmares had suddenly started up again. I suspect that Simon had started
to piece things together. The money that Jamie paid for his treatment—where had it really come from? Jamie told him it was family money, but that was unlikely. He could not have known about the initial attempt on Juliana’s life, but realized that if Jamie had been behind the rest of them, then he had also pushed Juliana over. And if Gwenna was not in London, then who had been responsible for her death? It had to be either Simon himself or Jamie.”

  The fire had subsided, but no one noticed. They were intent on what Alistair was saying.

  “The knowledge of what Jamie had done—and it must have seemed to Simon that he alone had benefitted from Jamie’s crimes—troubled Simon greatly. He was wrestling with what to do. He started drinking, something he did not usually indulge in. Perhaps to quell the knowledge that to stop the killing, he was going to put a rope around the neck of the one person who had saved him from madness; who loved him truly; with whom he shared a secret that even without murder could see both of them disgraced and in prison. If anyone else found out, Simon could end up incarcerated, and to his mind that would be unending torture.”

  Juliana closed her eyes, trying to banish the sight of Simon’s face from her mind. Sylvia looked horrified.

  “He knew that with the way Simon was viewed by most of the town, there had to be a better-than-average chance it would all be chalked up to Simon,” she said.

  Alistair looked at her and nodded. “But I don’t think he thought it through. What killing Simon would do to Jamie himself,” he added. “All the pain and distress, and for nothing. The one person he had done all this for was dead, and Jamie himself was alone.”