by Martha Lea
“Would you please convey my apologies to my wife. I have to go out for a couple of hours; no more than that, I am sure.”
The sun moved more fully into the room. Gwen sipped her water slowly. She thought, And still the birds are able to sing. She remembered the sharp clarity of everything her eye had rested on that next day in a life which had seemed so distant from this one. She held her empty glass, waiting for Gus to come back, as he always did, with her breakfast tray.
Effie, she thought, but nothing more than that.
The sun glanced off the mirrors, and a fabulous light ricocheted into the room.
Chapter LVIII
London. October 5, 1866.
Gus Pemberton felt empty as he watched the Jury stand up and file out of the courtroom to consider their verdict. He knew that had the Defence been conducted by his first choice of man, the case would have been thrown out of court by the Judge, or that the Judge, at least, would have made his direction to the Jury in Gwen’s favour. As it was, he couldn’t imagine that anyone present would be confident in guessing the verdict. All week, his fingernails had dug into his palms as each witness had been called up by the Prosecution. With each new name, Gus had wondered whether this would be the person to give the most damning evidence of all. When they did, for he was sure that such a person would have been found by now, he knew that he would not be able to stand it. Bettlesham and Bettlesham had kept their distance from the whole proceedings. Henry Bettlesham Senior had said to Gus, with a tone of regret the night before the first day of the trial, that he thought it best if he kept the lowest profile in England.
Gus now wondered if his approach had been all wrong; if there had been, perhaps, some other way of persuading Henry B. that either himself or his son could act for his wife. There was a low hum in the courtroom, shuffling, and much fidgeting as the spectators wondered how long they would have to wait or if there was time to go and empty their bladders. Gus stared up at the ceiling, as he dared not catch anyone’s eye. He didn’t trust himself not to lose his composure. That first conversation with Henry B., after he’d received Henry’s astonishing letter, played out again in his mind. There had been no witness called with the secret information, but still Gus felt his body throbbing with worry that somehow, even at this late stage, this unknown person might still be produced.
Gus had paced about in Henry B.’s rooms, unable to contain his anxiety long enough to park his backside on the chair offered. He’d sucked and puffed on the cigars he’d taken up again since Gwen’s arrest and waited for Henry’s response.
Henry had said, “I’m sorry, Augustus. This is quite embarrassing as I am sure you will appreciate.”
“Oh, come off it, Harry. I don’t see how there can’t be a way around this. If you won’t do it then I won’t have anyone but your son to represent my wife.”
“It’s not a question of won’t, but can’t; it’s simply out of the question. Henry Bettlesham Junior is a fine lawyer, I will admit, but Shanks is his equal. I haven’t yet released the details of the will and shan’t, of course, until the whole business is concluded. There was no one besides myself at the interment, in any case; such a drab affair. And it is a maze of complications. But the implications for yourself and your wife could be—indeed, would be—very severe.”
“You’ll put it about that Scales was intestate?”
“I can’t exactly do that, you know; not explicitly. But matters can be alluded to, should they crop up. I should hope they wouldn’t. So should you.”
“I know nothing about this Shanks fellow.”
“He’s first rate. You couldn’t look for a better man.”
“And he doesn’t know about the will?”
“Good Lord, no. I must assure you; it hasn’t gone beyond myself, Henry and now yourself. There were no copies which left these offices, either then or since.”
“I can barely think why he came to you.”
“You mustn’t let it impinge. But Scales thought he was making provision for someone practically destitute. And, of course, he was under the impression that your wife was not married. As long as your wife was truly unaware of the change to Scales’ will before his death, and as long as it remains undisclosed—suffice to say, we’ll keep saying our prayers.”
“But his widow came to see you yesterday. Surely—”
“I told her nothing. Of course, she was deeply distressed and presented some difficulties. She is very—”
“Accomplished. You’ll remember I have met her.”
“Quite so. Rest assured, she had nothing from me except my deepest condolences. She won’t know the worst of it until it is all over, and she may attempt to contest the will, of course.”
“I don’t doubt it, though there may well be no need.”
“Do not give in to the ogre of despair. The most important subject for now is your own wife and the ordeal she continues to face, and I do believe that Shanks is the best man to—”
“Save my wife from the noose and eternal infamy.”
“Shanks is very competent.”
“I don’t want competent; I want extraordinary. I can’t have some bastard come into court to reveal at the last minute that Gwen has inherited every last damn bit of Scales’ estate.”
“Dear man, do compose yourself. It will never come near to that.”
Gus did not believe in tempting fate but he wished that Shanks had been a different kind of extraordinary. Perhaps he was being uncharitable but he felt he couldn’t be held accountable for his feelings towards the man. When Shanks had failed to harangue Morrisson over his flaky evidence Gus had struggled to keep himself from getting up and doing it himself. The triumph he had felt at convincing Gwen’s aunt to change her evidence at the last minute had been sweet but brief. The days had been relentless, and now the ticking of every bloody pocket watch in the courtroom seemed amplified in his brain as the minutes ticked on into eternity. As he brought his gaze down from the ceiling, two things happened. First, he made eye contact with Euphemia Scales, whose presence in the courtroom he had until that moment been entirely unaware of. Then, the Jury began to make their way back in.
Chapter LIX
Carrick House. October 5, 1866.
Susan had known that it had been awful of her not to have told her mistress about the murder at Hyde Park. She had tried to look for a sign, a solution. She had gone to the Reverend for advice, but it had been Mrs Brewin who had said that it wasn’t really Susan’s responsibility to make sure her mistress read every square inch of the daily paper, and that if it had been put on the pile in the scullery, well, that was it done with. Mrs Brewin also pointed out that there were other ways the widow would find out, sooner or later. So, Susan had made peace with her troubled conscience and cut and strung the lavatory paper as usual.
Susan had followed the trial meticulously while her mistress had stayed in London. Running the house and taking care of the boys wore Susan right out, and she’d had to enlist the help of Mrs Brewin, who had been very quick indeed to down pots and pans at the vicarage. In turn, the Reverend had realised at some point that unless he wanted to live off old beef dripping, runny jam, pickled beets and no bread to put it on, he had better walk the three-mile round trip to Carrick House every day and eat his meals there. He couldn’t say it was a disagreeable arrangement, and he found that the rigorous, out-of-doors exercise helped him to think clearly and was more conducive to the composition of sermons than the pacing of carpet his study afforded.
He liked the little boys, who said amusing and mainly incomprehensible things, and who did not seem at all perturbed by the extended absence of their mother. He also noticed that there was a keener brightness to his surroundings at Carrick House. His preparations for his sermons, whilst rather different in tone and timbre to those he’d made for years at the vicarage were rather pleasing to his sensibilities. The surfaces of the furniture gleamed at him and seemed to cast God’s light about the room in a rather fairylike manner. The windows see
med not to have been glazed at all until his head bumped up against the glass when he tried to peer at the view up the main drive further than the panes would permit. Over the first week or so, the Reverend gradually began to realise that the house was simply very clean. Mrs Brewin, firmly ensconced, took it upon herself to engage through an acquaintance in town an illiterate but excellent cook whose skills in preserving were exemplary.
The Reverend had followed the trial. Everyone he knew had been following the trial. He had tried to keep Mrs Pemberton’s identity to himself, but the impossibility of that became clear as the trial had progressed. After all, Mr Scales had not taken a whole harem of lady watercolourists to Brazil.
Today, they were all waiting for the paper to arrive, each avoiding the other’s eye. The Reverend peered again from the window at the view of the drive and stifled a release of digestive gas behind a clenched fist.
Waking to a dry mouth, bodies pressed against Euphemia as the shroud of an uncomforting sleep slipped away. The empty carriage she had chosen at the beginning of her journey had since quickly filled. The train gave out its final shudder of stopping at a station and the dent in her forehead from taking a sleep against the window frame began to make itself felt. The usual stink of such confinement—stale tobacco, boiled egg, old sweat, camphor, lavender, naphthalene, rotten tooth, fart, wet wool—made her sit up straighter and look about without looking at faces, to see who had travelled with her, who had witnessed her sleep. The embarrassment of the dream she’d been taken from was still fresh in her mind, and it was possible that she had been calling out in her sleep. Euphemia turned her face to the window. There was a wasp, late for its winter nest or tardy in its dying. It butted against the window, and the screams from the guard’s whistle masked out its tiny noise.
Before boarding the train, Euphemia had bought herself a newspaper from one of the stands. There were many things, many activities, according to some, which a female of certain rank should not do, should not indulge in, should not permit herself to enjoy. Buying a newspaper was one of them but Euphemia had given up caring what other people would think of her. She had been there to see her sister vilified all through those sweltering days and stuffy hours of the trial. Euphemia had been incapable of restraining her curiosity.
Euphemia had not opened the paper. She knew what the report would say, so she kept the paper folded away in her travelling bag as she reached in for her flask. There were hours yet of this journey to endure, and Euphemia took a very tiny sip, just enough to wet the sour taste on her tongue. Then, she brought out the tin of sweets she had paid for along with the newspaper; she put one of the sugared violets into her mouth and stared again out of the window at the rushing by of the land and let her mind empty, of everything, just for a few moments.
Chapter LX
THE TIMES, Friday, October 5, 1866.
MURDER TRIAL AT THE OLD BAILEY.
THE PRISONER has held herself well erect in the courtroom each day of the proceedings, and today was no time for the prisoner to deviate from her usual attitude. Her dress was quite impeccably attended and sombre. A thick veil half obscuring her face, the prisoner kept up a surreptitious knotting or sliding of her fingers against each other, slotting them together in a constant bid to make sure that her gloves were without wrinkles. When each person spoke, she attended to what that person had to say with silent acuity; to the reaction of others in the room, the prisoner seemed alert to every nuance of tone. She has betrayed no emotion during the last session of the proceedings. There has been nothing in her manner which could have been interpreted as that of a guilty party or otherwise. Her attitude has not, apart from the constant adjustment to her gloves, demonstrated that all of this bother has been centred around herself or that her life has been in the balance. Mr Probart for the Prosecution examined witnesses, during which time the Defence made several objections; some were upheld, others were not. However, by the end of the Defence cross-examination it was clear to all assembled in court that Mr Probart’s witnesses served only to strengthen the case for the Defence. From the gallery a veritable hum of consternation and excitement could be discerned after the summing up by the Judge, Mr Justice Linden. The Jury retired and deliberated for more than forty-five minutes before they returned the verdict: the prisoner was found Not Guilty, the Jury concluding that the death of Mr Edward Scales was accidental. At which declaration, a roar of appreciation emitted from the gallery and rose to the roof, after which a general hubbub of whistles, cheers and cries of “Bless you, Mrs Pemberton’ were audible amidst the noise. Mrs Pemberton was helped away from the courtroom by her husband and others.
Chapter LXI
Carrick House. November 1, 1866.
The Book of Phobias
by
C.R. Jeffreye
“The exercise of combining two emotions, so as to bring out a third different from either, is not intrinsically arduous. Everything depends on the facility of assuming the elementary feelings.”
Bain, 1855.
(i) And so we come to the most singularly intriguing case which has been a subject of my exploratory studies of the mind and its peculiarities under inspection. We shall call the specimen, [censored], or X, hereafter.
X first came to my notice some years ago. The spouse had called to my attention, in my capacity as a Gentleman of Medicine, the distress caused to both parties on the occasion of the pinnacle feat of the nuptial requirements. This would not in itself cause undue concern under normal circumstances. My advice to the unhappy spouse of X was that Time would Unravel the Mysteries, and that All Would Be As Expected. The dysfunction, dissatisfaction and, moreover, disappointment over the lack of potential progeny continued, however, for several months, and the spouse sought my counsel once more. On this occasion, I was privy to further details, thus: X was unable to consummate his marriage due to an aversion to the follicular protuberances of his wife’s [cut].
I delicately suggested the obstacle of consternation might be solved by a simple act of removal. This, she informed me, after many floods of tears and blushes, had been attempted without success. The renewal of such follicular emergence, before the next attempt by X, was in all senses, quite apart from being wholly distasteful in practical terms, more disastrous than the original state of affairs.
My suggestion then, was to allow a certain amount of time between our meeting and the next attempt, to allow for Nature’s Replenishment of that which had been depilated. I suggested that I might have an interview with X, to which, after Gentle Persuasion, the Lady agreed.
(ii) In earnest conversation with X, his inhibitions loosened medicinally, he unfolded his version of the sorry affair.
X began by relating to me the fact of his ignorance of the way nature has endowed the anatomy of the female. X stated that the sight of his naked wife on his wedding night was an absolute shock, his having come to expect a perfectly smooth creature, as portrayed in any tasteful work of art. After jovial reproach, I asked him to expand upon his reaction to this “discovery” of his. Utter revulsion, was his reply. He did not, could not, desire his wife in any measure from the neck down; that he regarded her as a grotesque freak of Nature.
I earnestly implored him to take the not uncommon measure of approach from afar. That completion of desire, could be attained, I assured him, by stealth. If the marble-like surface was what he desired, and nought else, a route from a different angle entirely, might ease his desire to a more satisfactory conclusion, i.e., that he must [deleted] at all. That he must approach her in this manner every night for a month, and, rather than try to force the issue, remain apart from her and regard the beauty as though a work of art were before him.
X went away much lighter in attitude and I fully expected to hear no more about it.
(iii) Two months later I was again in earnest confidence with X. The solution had, to a degree, been successful in that he had managed, after a number of weeks, to stand to and not lie asleep in his wife’s presence. However, at the me
rest touch of passion, all was lost, and unrecoverable. X was utterly despondent and, alas, allowing this most private part of his life to overshadow everything in his path. In short, he was a most frustrated mess. At this point, I was quite at a loss as to how to proceed, if indeed it was possible to proceed.
Then, a moment of inspiration struck. I brought into the room a small fur, concealed behind my back. I asked X to close his eyes and to put out his hand. I laid the fur into his hand. He seemed puzzled, but not at all vexed by the article. So, I surmised to X, that it was not a case of pelts per se. No, he concurred; in any case, he said, this sable was like silk. His wife’s [removed] resembled his beard: wiry and manly and unladylike. I assured him that the [erased] he so desired could be found within, if only he could overcome his aversion to the fact that all women, not only his wife, were so endowed. That he must make himself familiar with his wife at all costs, as his health demanded it. The next suggestion I made was that in [section expurgated]. In this, I assured him, he might be so satisfied that he may climb to the next ridge of the mountain and thus from here admire the vista.
(iv) Unhappily, X was to confide some while later that the weather was not at all suitable or conducive to mountain scrambles. I then suggested to X that he should familiarise himself with the true meaning of Freak of Nature. He accompanied me on an excursion to witness the various exhibits at Saville House where I had heard one particular hirsute lady performed.
X became obsessed with this personage and would not leave the subject alone. I perceived an unhealthy attitude in his attention to the female, and advised X that his energy must be spent on the sole prize of [excised] his wife in her [eliminated].