The Widow's Confession

by Sophia Tobin

  The crashing chords of the organ called the congregation to attention. There was the rustle of fabric, the soft bump of the occasional prayer book dropped as the congregation rose to its feet and the priest, acolytes and choir processed in. Theo’s face was solemn, contemplative, as though he was hardly aware of the people around him. He was dressed in a green cope, embroidered finely in gold thread. When he moved into a pool of light, the sun’s rays danced and glittered over the gold on his back, like sunlight on green water. There was a chill to the glitter, however, and Edmund had a sudden sense of the deep and leaden sea that had carried the girl’s body round the bay. He tried to suppress the thought.

  It was the moment when Theo sang Psalm 130 that awoke Edmund to the man’s gifts. His voice had an astonishing beauty; there was something of the cloister in its focused purity.

  ‘Out of the depths have I cried unto Thee, O Lord;

  Lord, hear my voice: let Thine ears be attentive to the voice of my supplications.

  If Thou, Lord, shouldest mark iniquities, O Lord, who shall stand? . . .’

  Edmund looked around and saw rapt faces; as the incense began to billow, clouding the clear air of the church, one woman fainted and had to be carried out.

  Mrs Quillian shook her head. ‘Incense,’ she whispered to Edmund. ‘Is it really necessary?’

  Before the service, Delphine had stood outside for some time, feeling the prickly veil of cold sweat on her back, the threat of rain in the air. At the sight of the young girl’s body, she felt everything had changed; the shadow of fear, and threat, had made the ordinary seem alien.

  As the service commenced, the church was suddenly illuminated by a burst of sunlight through the windows that lined the length of the building near the ceiling. The slanting columns of light pierced the mist of incense as though through treetops in a wood, breaking the darkness of the canopy’s shade. It was an effect the artist in her longed to capture; she wished she had a pencil and paper in her hand, for she knew that memory would not be enough to capture its beauty. Had he not been sitting behind her, she would have glanced at Mr Benedict, to see if the artist was watching it, the contrast of light and smoke, the sudden piercing of shadow. If so, she knew he must be tempted to take out his sketchpad, to make some recording of the event – unless, she thought with envy, he held it all in his mind.

  Delphine and Julia had paid for places in pew 18, sharing with an amenable family down from London, only just recently arrived. It was the mother of the family – a fine, strong-looking woman – who had fainted the moment the incense had reached her, so that she descended with a clatter and a thump onto the floor and had to be scooped up by her husband, who muttered something about popery as he raised her up. They were gently ushered out into the fresh air, their children, white-faced but silent, tiptoeing behind. Delphine honoured Mr Hallam’s composure; he had not ceased, only continued to sing the psalm, his voice soaring. There was nothing showy about the voice, though it was beautiful; it was pure, without any affectation, note-perfect, so that it seemed to meld with, and belong completely to, the beams of light falling through the incense.

  Delphine closed her eyes. She thought that, surely, if she was to feel any revelation, it would be at a moment like this. As a child she had stared at the colours in stained-glass windows; had repeated the words of a single prayer, to find something like peace. Much as she knew that revelation could not be forced, still she tried to force it. She had not felt it in years, not since before she had left New York. She could go for months without even seeking it, imagining that she was reconciled to the fact that her heart had hardened. Now she opened her eyes, and found Julia looking at her sadly.

  She did not, in truth, listen to the sermon. She concentrated on looking at the details of the church, with its sense of cautious, provincial lavishness. It was a strange thing, this church; it seemed to have a mixed sense of its identity. For all the incense and the stained glass, there were vast stretches of plain, light wall, as though it was trying to play two parts at once. Protestant and Catholic; plain and ornamented; uncomplicated and mysterious. Delphine looked around at the other worshippers, some local, some clearly visitors.

  Then, someone turned and looked at her.

  It was a young woman; Delphine thought she could not have been more than eighteen years old. The girl caught Delphine’s gaze and held it, with no discernible emotion, neither curiosity, hostility nor warmth. Her beauty contracted Delphine’s heart as the sunlight had done. Her skin was luminous and dewy, like that of a baby; even from this distance, her eyes were a deep, piercing violet, and her face was surrounded by a silky mass of coppery-gold hair. But there was something else in her; something beyond her features. In that open gaze, there was innocence – and the protectiveness that had sprung up in Delphine as she had looked at the girl on the beach transferred itself to the beautiful face, as easily as releasing a breath. As the girl turned back to listen to the sermon, Delphine found that her gloved hands were clutching the prayer book tightly.

  It was then that she glanced over her shoulder, and immediately caught the eye of Mr Benedict, sitting two pews behind her. His eyes were bright, and she was sure that he, too, had seen the girl. He raised his eyebrows, as though he thought himself in silent communion with her thoughts, and with a slight smile curling on his lips, inclined his head to Delphine.

  As usual, she chose not to take communion. She was removed from God. She did not wish to do it for the sake of convention, and let Julia pass her and join the lines snaking up the nave to the brass communion rail.

  ‘A life has been lost on our beach and our hearts are full of sorrow, but we must rejoice for her sake, for she is with the Lord, and she will nevermore know suffering.’

  These were the sole words spoken by Theo about the dead girl. There was a palpable ripple of excitement through the church. Then he continued, with no further mention of her. Edmund could not help but feel disappointment, as though the child had not been honoured sufficiently.

  The moment the procession, led by a silver cross on a wooden staff, had left the church, the atmosphere returned to its pre-service state, the chattering voices rising as the organ continued to play. The instrument increased in volume, as though the organist was valiantly trying to outdo the collective voice of the congregation. At the final crashing of chords, Delphine rose, but when she looked for the young woman who had met her gaze, she could not see her.

  Delphine slipped away from Julia. From one of the arches leading into a side chapel she watched her cousin speaking to the clergyman, who was waiting at the door to greet the congregation. From observation of her cousin’s back, Delphine knew Julia would be complimenting him warmly on the service, but in Mr Hallam’s face she saw only the studied politeness of duty. When Julia moved away he greeted the next person – a person he evidently knew – with deliberate enthusiasm and, knowing that Julia would notice and feel this, Delphine felt a pang of sorrow for her cousin, a kind of tenderness which Julia had recently drawn from her. Still, she did not move; she watched Julia looking at her prayer book, then turning to greet their maid Martha, who had been sitting at the back of the church with her own family.

  Delphine was looking at the details of a crucifix in the side chapel nearby, when she heard movement behind her. She anticipated seeing Mr Benedict and braced herself, but the voice she heard made her turn and smile.

  ‘It’s a fine piece of work, isn’t it?’ said Edmund Steele. ‘Mrs Beck, may I introduce you to Mrs Quillian? Like you, Mrs Quillian is here for the summer. I am afraid that I made the assumption you would not object to an informal introduction.’

  ‘Forgive him; I begged to be introduced,’ said Mrs Quillian, shaking Delphine’s hand. Her bright eyes searched Delphine’s expression, glittering in her strongly wrinkled face. ‘I said to Mr Steele: “Do you know that fine-looking woman?” I am most glad to make your acquaintance.’

  ‘And I yours,’ said Delphine. In the past, she would have withdrawn at t
hat moment, but she found herself signalling to Julia to come over. ‘May I introduce my cousin, Miss Julia Mardell?’

  Introductions were made and acknowledged; it was only later that a detail occurred to Delphine – that on meeting Julia, Edmund Steele had bitten his lip, and let his eyes rest on her face for a moment too long. She wondered if he had noticed the red stain on her pale skin, even beneath her veil.

  ‘I did not expect to see something like this crucifix here,’ Delphine said, trying to deflect any questions about their plans or background. The piece she gestured to was wood, the carving naïve, and more brutal than any of the other furnishings in the church.

  ‘I am told it was made by a local man, from timber from a shipwreck,’ said Mr Steele. ‘But I don’t know whether to believe that. It has a certain power, though.’

  ‘The local people must feel in need of protection,’ said Julia suddenly. ‘The sea can be cruel, as we have discovered this week.’

  ‘Oh, let us not speak of disagreeable things!’ said Mrs Quillian, in a brusque tone which made the phrase sound like a reprimand. ‘I am afraid that is my rule: we must speak of summer warmth and sunlight only. There are many interesting diversions in this part of the world. I always arrange excursions during my stay in Broadstairs – I am quite established here, you know – and I hope I may rely on you both, such interesting ladies as you are, to attend at least some of them?’

  Delphine felt Julia’s eyes on her. In all of their travels they had made every effort to remain friendless. It had not been difficult – but this old woman, with her wrinkled face and the Georgian jolliness which seemed thirty years out of date, seemed suddenly to have insinuated herself into their company.

  ‘I am sure we can attend at least one,’ said Delphine. ‘We are at Victory Cottage, if you wish to call.’

  Mrs Quillian seemed pleased with this; goodbyes were said, and they moved apart. Julia tucked her hand in the crook of Delphine’s arm and steered her swiftly towards the door.

  ‘What on earth were you thinking of?’ she said in a severe whisper.

  The vicar was conversing in an animated way with an elderly couple. Delphine was glad to be able to leave without speaking to him. She did not want to have to face down his disapproval of her, nor be troubled by trying to decipher its source. On the church steps they passed Martha and her family, who were evidently arguing about dinner. Martha’s family were all tall and stocky, like her, so that they made others look stunted; and Martha, dressed in her Sunday best, looked splendid, a lavender ribbon in her bonnet, her face relaxed and bright with pleasure.

  As Delphine and Julia passed the group, a small child, who was evidently one of their number, slipped away in parallel. She was about seven years of age, dressed in a dark blue dress and a white apron, and holding her straw bonnet in her hand.

  ‘Martha’s niece,’ said Julia. ‘They seem to adore her. She did not wish to go to Sunday school today, so came with the family.’

  As she spoke, the little girl descended the steps in front of them and seemed about to cross the street, transfixed by the sight of an unruly gull that was pecking at a piece of rubbish. As she came near, it stopped, and regarded her with its angry, yellow gaze.

  Delphine glanced back towards the church; none of Martha’s family were watching. ‘Wait there,’ she said, running down the steps and taking the child’s arm. ‘Wait for your family.’ The little girl turned and stared at her, round-eyed, as though she didn’t know what to do next.

  ‘Sarah! What have you been doing?’ It was Martha, looking more flushed than usual as she came quickly out of the church and down to the roadside. Her family filtered out onto the steps and stood there, awkwardly gathered as though grouped together ready for a daguerreotype to be taken, their faces set. Delphine felt their eyes on her: curious, and not without hostility.

  ‘Sorry, madam,’ said Martha, taking the little girl’s hand. ‘She is so very particular about going here and there on her own, a little like me.’ She swallowed hard. ‘She is my sister’s girl, and my sister is ill, very often. Sarah can be a little wild.’

  ‘I was not thinking that,’ Delphine said. ‘I simply did not wish her to wander into the street and be crushed by something. I know from experience that the carts and horses come round that turn at a lick sometimes.’

  ‘Yes, they do,’ said Martha. Then, gravely, ‘Did you hear that, Sarah? Did you hear what the lady is saying? Does it remind you of anything, Sarah? It’s what we say to you, all the time, isn’t it? You must not wander off. It is not safe.’ There was a throb in her voice which surprised Delphine.

  Sarah said nothing, clearly feeling that her words would have no bearing here; she merely nodded.

  Martha curtseyed and said goodbye, and Julia came down the steps to Delphine. As Martha led Sarah away, they heard the little girl’s piping voice. ‘I am quick,’ she said. ‘I could have got out of the way of any hoss. That’s not why you always make such a fuss.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  Now I write of that sore spot, deep in the cleft of my heart. Touching on it shoots pain through every limb and every faculty. So I must write of it in a sideways way. I cannot face it head on; and I cannot show my enemy all my cards at once.

  Forgive me, I should not call you my enemy – do not put the letter down at the sight of those words. You are the most beloved of foes, forcing me to face the past and relive what has caused us both such pain. I both love you and hate you for causing me to do this; if I could become your wife, without doing it, I would. But I fear if I did so, I would only be wrapping my wounds in so many cloths, and they would not heal, kept from the light and air.

  Shall I tell you of Mr Theo Hallam? The first evening in Broadstairs, when I walked late into evening prayer and my eyes met his – I knew there would be something between us. The following Sunday, I felt relieved when I could escape speaking to him at the church door. That voice of his – as he sang the psalm – changed everything. I loved that voice, and feared it, as I feared anything that had power over me.

  It was a strange thing; I felt both drawn to him, and repelled by him, and when I came to know him, I could sense he felt the same. I have heard talk of magnetic fields; I have heard of repulsion and attraction, and we were – it seemed – unnatural: one moment drawn together, one moment repelling each other; one meeting brought coldness and the next, heat. I did not know why – not then.

  ‘There are no marks of violence on the girl’s body,’ said Dr Crisp. ‘None whatsoever. And you yourself heard – she was often one to go off somewhere, dreaming. If she was cut off by the tide and could not escape, then it is a tragedy, but not a crime. Often, drownings are not even reported; the bodies are simply buried.’

  The Red Lion was emptying out, but Edmund could not find the inclination to leave. He sat at the table and saw Dr Crisp check his pocket-watch. The inquest had been brief; it had hardly been worth the coroner attending, he thought, and the coroner had made it clear that normally one would not have been held. It seemed that Mr Benedict had sent him several letters, and pestered the parish constable, so it had happened under duress.

  Edmund had spoken of finding the body, as had Benedict’s servant; it had not been thought worthwhile to call the others who had been at the beach. They wished to trouble the sea-bathers as little as possible, Crisp said. No medical witnesses had been called; there would be no post-mortem. Edmund understood the practical reasons. The coroner would have to pay for the expense of it, and it was likely the justices at the next quarter session would not refund him if they found insufficient reason to do so – which they often did.

  ‘She would have to have had her skull caved in and the murderer’s name written on her in blood for it to be worth going to the length of a post-mortem,’ said Crisp. ‘I, and the coroner, cannot go chasing after doubtful cases; I am not encouraged to do so. There must be certainty.’ He lowered his voice. ‘The coroner is hale and hearty enough, but he doesn’t wish to be called to Broadstairs
for a drowning at a rate of only nine pence per mile. Mr Benedict has made no friends by causing such trouble, and he didn’t even bother to come here tonight.’

  ‘I accept all that you say,’ said Edmund wearily. He did not wish to argue, pointlessly, and he knew the case seemed to be a simple one. However, he could not help the unease he felt at the verdict of Natural Death.

  ‘Still, the strain shows on your face,’ said Crisp. ‘I am grieved that you, as an outsider, have been involved in this matter. You must believe me when I say that the constable questioned the young man most thoroughly.’

  It had emerged that the victim was a girl from London who had come to Broadstairs to be apprenticed as a servant. She was young, but old enough that she had a local man interested in her: Davy Holland, eighteen, and bad-tempered, had quarrelled with her when she said she wished to take up a post as a servant at Northdown House. On being questioned, he had broken down and sobbed that he had not hurt her; he had witnesses to vouch for his whereabouts that evening and the morning after.

  She had gone wandering – gone dreaming, they thought. Perhaps she had been taken ill, or fainted. ‘We all know how emotional and excessive young women can be,’ the coroner had said, and there were nods and murmurs of approval which caused Edmund to down his drink even more quickly. It was agreed: the tide had cut her off, she had drowned, and her body had been carried round to Main Bay by the sea.