The Unexpected Return of Josephine Fox

by Claire Gradidge

  ‘If she were to die intestate—’

  ‘Right.’ The smile in his voice makes me feel sick. ‘Such a good job I didn’t divorce her.’

  ‘She’s not at the cottage, Eddie.’

  ‘I told you not to go there again.’

  ‘I couldn’t help it. I had to know.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  He laughs. ‘Silly girl.’

  ‘What if she won’t let us live at Ramillies?’

  ‘I don’t see how she can stop us. She’s my wife, we’re one flesh. It’s the law. And with her history, who do you think a judge would believe?’

  ‘What about that bugger Nash? He told me he was representing her.’

  ‘You let me worry about Nash. Now, give me that knife, my dear. I’ll cut the bread. Your hands are shaking.’

  ‘I’m worried, Eddie.’

  ‘Don’t be. When the time comes, I’ll take care of Olivia.’

  It’s as if a cold wind has blown down my spine. A cold, gas-haunted breeze. I miss what he says next, something about sandwiches.

  ‘There’s only jam,’ Miss Waverley says.

  ‘We’ll go out for dinner tonight. A small celebration.’

  ‘I’m on duty till six.’

  ‘I’ll come and pick you up. Now, bring the tray.’

  The door closes.

  If I had any doubts before, they’ve gone. What I’m doing may not be right, but it’s the only thing. I owe it to Nell, to Ollie, to Ruth. I owe it to old Mr Oxley. I don’t know whether he had worked it out. That it was his nephew who was my mother’s seducer. Perhaps that’s why he died. The shock of it.

  It’s making me want to die.

  Dr Waverley, my father.

  My father, who takes disgusting pictures of girls. Who uses his status to frighten them, to dress them up in rags and dirt.

  Who uses them, gets them pregnant. Disposes of them. Because whatever Nash says, I know. It’s not just about photographs. Ruth died in this house.

  My mother was lucky to survive.

  Perhaps I was luckier still. I can’t bear to think about what happened to his other daughter. Adele. Dressed up, humiliated, drowned.

  I can’t bear to think about Ruth’s baby, left nameless on a doorstep to die.

  The rage is hot inside me. For him, for Nell, for Ruth and Adele. Even for myself. For all the children the bastard’s abused.

  I don’t care what Nash said. The only chance we had was to catch Waverley red-handed. Before he could dispose of the evidence. But that won’t happen if he gets a look inside his filthy darkroom.

  I don’t care about the chain of evidence. I just want to see him locked up in a cell, his precious status ripped away. And there’s only one way that can happen now.

  He has to confess.

  I’m going to make him admit that he seduced my mother, frightened her, drove her away. Confess that he killed Ruth and her baby.

  I feel in my pocket for reassurance. The photographs?

  Still there.

  The revolver?

  That too.

  The gun isn’t loaded, it never has been. But my father won’t know that, any more than I did when Frank held it to my throat. It’s the fact of it, unmistakable against the flesh. The threat of it. One doesn’t take chances.

  The kitchen door again. I tense. Miss Waverley. A rattle of crockery. Their lunch tray.

  ‘I’ll be off then,’ she calls.

  Footsteps come close. They’re right outside. Surely she can’t want anything in here? I hold my breath. My heart’s beating so loud I’m afraid she’ll hear. But the footsteps fade and I breathe again.

  I wait, ears straining for sounds. The hop and step as Miss Waverley gets onto her bicycle. The side gate banging.

  Now he’s alone.

  My father.

  My target.

  When my breathing settles, I venture out of my hiding place. Creep through the kitchen. Push the baize door open a fraction. Listen again. Nothing. I’ll have to guess where he is. Begin with the study.

  I take out the gun, make sure I’m holding it as if I know what I’m doing. If Waverley’s at his desk, he’ll be facing me when I go in, so I need to be ready.

  I turn the handle, open the door. Step inside. Dr Waverley is sitting by the fire, his back towards me. He doesn’t even turn.

  ‘Did you forget something, Edie?’ he says.

  I’m behind him, the gun pressed into his neck, before he can wonder why his sister doesn’t answer him.

  ‘It’s not Edie,’ I tell him. ‘Sit still, Doctor, and I’ll try not to kill you by mistake.’

  ‘Who are you? What do you want?’

  His voice is steadier than mine was, when Frank ambushed me. But he’s tense as a wire, I can feel it through the barrel of the gun. It’s not safe for me to stand like this, vulnerable to a physical attack I can’t hope to counter.

  ‘I warn you, Doctor. Don’t move, or I will shoot.’

  I take the gun away from his neck. Step back far enough so he can see me and the gun, but not reach me.

  ‘You?’ he says. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘Put your hands where I can see them.’ It’s a cliché, words from every gangster film I’ve ever seen, but I can’t think of anything better. ‘That’s right, on the armrests of the chair.’

  He does as he’s told, and I feel the heady power of it. Dr Waverley, self-appointed Mr Romsey, doing what his bastard daughter tells him. Who’d have thought it?

  ‘What do you want?’ he says again. ‘What’s this about, Mrs Lester?’

  ‘It’s about finding out you’re my father. It’s about some horrible photographs. And it’s about Ruth Taylor and her baby.’

  ‘This is ridiculous. Why don’t you put that gun away and sit down? We can talk it through like civilised people.’

  ‘You wouldn’t give me the time of day if I didn’t have a gun. I’m not stupid, Father. I wouldn’t trust you as far as I could throw you.’

  ‘Look—’

  ‘No, you look. Admit it. You seduced my mother.’

  ‘Nell? Nothing to do with seduction. She was asking for it. Ripe for the plucking.’

  ‘Liar.’ I cock the revolver, watch him flinch. But I have to be careful. If he suspects I can’t or won’t shoot, I’m done for. ‘You know that’s not true.’

  He laughs. ‘If she told you anything different, she’s the liar.’

  ‘She never said a word, not even on her deathbed. She was always too scared to say anything. What did you threaten her with, you bastard?’

  ‘Careful, my dear. It doesn’t become you to throw that word around.’

  ‘It’s what you made me.’

  He shrugs. ‘If you say so.’

  ‘You admit it?’

  ‘Why not? You can call me Daddy, if you like.’

  ‘I don’t like. It disgusts me to think that you’re my father. A pervert like you.’

  ‘That’s a bit rich. I was hardly more than a boy when Nell and I—’

  ‘A boy with a camera.’

  He smiles, reminiscent, as if he’s enjoying himself.

  ‘Pretty little figure, she had. You won’t be offended if I say you haven’t taken after her, my dear?’

  My hand shakes. ‘You won’t be offended if I blow your head off?’

  ‘Steady on. Just my little joke.’

  ‘I’m not laughing.’ I do my best to stay calm. ‘Nor will you be if I make the photographs public. I’m not joking about that. I’ve seen them. Not the official ones, I mean the others, the dirty ones. The little girls in rags.’ I free one hand from the gun, reach into my pocket. Bring out the pictures. Hold them carefully, well out of his reach. ‘Recognise these?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he blusters.

  But he’s not enjoying himself so much now. His skin looks yellow, sagging as if the flesh beneath has suddenly shrunk.

  ‘You haven’t been
to your office today, or you’d have realised. I was there, you see. Yesterday afternoon. I had to get out in a bit of a hurry, though. I didn’t quite manage to put everything back where it should have been.’

  ‘You broke into my office?’

  ‘Not to say broke in. The door was open. I did explore a bit, of course. But it was easy to find your filthy little hoard.’

  ‘It’s . . . nothing to do with me. Someone must have—’

  ‘There are so many, though. I bet an expert could tell if the pictures were all taken with the same camera. What do you think? Will you risk it? I bet they were, and it was yours. That natty little darkroom, all kitted out so you can develop your own prints. You think no one knows, no one tells? I’ve only been in Romsey a week and I’ve heard it already. “Don’t go into the darkroom with Doc Waverley, the sweets aren’t worth it.” I’m not very impressed by aniseed balls myself.’

  ‘Harmless fun, nothing more. You can’t prove anything.’

  ‘You think your reputation will survive if I publish the pictures? Tell people where I got them? The one of my mother, for instance. Even though it’s so old, you can see she’s weeping. And this one of Ruth, you can see she’s pregnant. The bruises show up really well on her. And this one. What would people say about this, do you think? Your other daughter, little Adele. Posing like Ophelia. You call that art? What did you think when she drowned herself for real?’

  ‘Don’t you dare speak to me of her. She’s nothing to do with you.’

  ‘Of course she is. She was my half-sister. It’s natural to care about a sister, you must know that.’

  ‘What are you suggesting, you bitch?’

  I hadn’t been suggesting anything, but it gives me pause. The look on his face is pure hatred.

  ‘Careful,’ I say. ‘I’m the one holding the gun. And if you don’t want to talk about Adele, we can always go back to Ruth. I know you killed her. You abandoned her baby, left it to be eaten by rats.’

  ‘Wrong, on every count.’ The voice, not Waverley’s, comes from behind me.

  Edith Waverley is in the doorway, a shotgun in her hands. I’ve been so intent on watching my father’s every move, I’ve let myself be blindsided.

  ‘Put the gun down, Mrs Lester.’

  There’s only one thing to do. I’m back at Waverley’s side in a flash, the revolver pressed against his neck.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘You won’t shoot,’ she says. ‘But I will.’

  ‘You want to risk it? Go on. But my father will get hurt too.’

  ‘Your father?’ She almost spits it. ‘Two minutes with a whore? That’s not fatherhood.’

  ‘Nor’s what he did with Adele. Did you know about that?’

  ‘Silly child, she was going to get us all into trouble. I had to put her out of the way.’

  The jolt that runs through Waverley would have got him killed if there had been a bullet in my gun. But he doesn’t seem to notice his lucky escape.

  ‘Edie,’ he says. ‘Edie. What are you saying?’

  ‘I had to do it, Eddie. You must see that. It’s just like this girl they’re making all the fuss about. I couldn’t let them tell people what you’d done.’

  ‘You killed Adele?’

  Something comes into her eyes, something horrible. A kind of cunning malevolence.

  ‘It’s no good blaming me, Eddie. I wouldn’t have had to do it if you hadn’t fiddled about with her. Never could help yourself, could you?’

  I’ve been forgotten. My father and his sister stare across the room at each other. He stands, ignores my gun. Brushes me aside.

  ‘You killed Adele.’ He says it again, but this time it’s not a question. He advances towards her.

  She steps back, levels the gun.

  ‘Stay back, Eddie. I warn you, I’ll shoot.’

  ‘My daughter. You killed her.’

  I’m just in time to pull him away as the shotgun goes off. There’s a rush of hot air as the main blast passes between Waverley and myself, the stinging of innumerable wasps in my face and shoulder. My ears ring and my arm is instantly numb. Frank’s revolver drops to the floor.

  Waverley’s caught the edge of the shot too. There’s blood running down his face.

  In the doorway, Edith brings the shotgun round to bear on me. I don’t know much about guns, but I know enough to understand my danger. The second barrel hasn’t been fired.

  ‘One last little mess of yours to clear up, Eddie. Should have done it years ago.’

  ‘No.’ His voice is strange, choking. ‘No more killing, Edie.’

  ‘Don’t be so namby-pamby. I’m not asking you to do it. Just stand out of the way.’

  ‘I can’t do that.’

  His movements are jerky as he goes towards her. He must have been more badly hurt than I thought.

  ‘We’ll tell them she broke in,’ she says. ‘It’s the truth, after all. And she brought a gun with her. It’s self-defence, pure and simple.’

  He’s got his hand over the shotgun, pushing it away.

  ‘No, Edie, it’s too late.’

  And then he goes down, falling in slow motion, his hand on the barrel, pulling the gun with him. Miss Waverley doesn’t let go. Her finger tightens on the trigger and the gun fires. There’s a huge spatter of blood across the wall as his hand and arm are blown to shreds. He screams. Edith Waverley shrieks, drops to her knees beside him. She’s calling his name, Eddie, Eddie, over and over, but he’s not answering.

  Now, I find I can move. Numb, I reach the table where the telephone sits. The operator comes on the line straight away.

  ‘There’s been a shooting,’ I manage to say. ‘The Briars. We need an ambulance, quick as you like. And then call Mr Nash.’

  32

  24th–25th April

  Miss Edith Waverley’s confession

  OF COURSE I KILLED HER, the little whore. How dare she come here, threatening me? Blaming me, asking for money. You think only a man can kill? I should have killed her before, I should have killed them all. Should have started with Nell Fox, her and her bastard. Thought I’d scared her away, scared her enough with the pictures. Should have killed her then, all the sluts and their red-headed get. I wanted to kill them all. My baby, my poor little baby. Mine and Eddie’s baby had red hair all over him like a monkey. Face like a little monkey. Something went wrong, something in his brain. Said it was heredity. They thought they could trick me, make me tell, but I never have. It was all Eddie’s fault, Eddie and his photographs. Those foolish photographs. I told him not to keep them here, to bring her here. He should never have let her come here. When she found out what I’d done with her baby, she thought she could blackmail us. Little fool. She was stupid, stupid and greedy. She thought she could frighten me, make me pay. But she turned her back on me. So stupid, she never saw it coming. So easy, like swatting a fly. Eddie had to help me then. Too soft to kill, always so soft. He didn’t want to know, didn’t like to know. But he had to help me this time. Get rid of the body. I couldn’t do it. It was his little weakness. None of them mattered, none of those girls, those children. I hated them all. If I couldn’t have Eddie, if I couldn’t have his baby, why should they? Josy Fox should never have visited Uncle Paul like that. She had him thinkin’ about Eddie. Couldn’t risk it. Easy, so easy. Old man like that. He’d had a little nip. Asleep, fast asleep, he didn’t even struggle. Blessin’ for him really, he’d been ill for too long. A mercy, to put him out of his misery. Eddie and I, we should have Ramillies. Olivia doesn’t want it. Doesn’t want Eddie. Silly woman, couldn’t even die when I tried . . . Eddie said not to worry. Poor Eddie. Not my fault, it was Fox. Who does she think she is, she’s just another whore’s daughter. A bastard, a vixen, vermin. Telling him . . . I had to do it. He was always so soft. She was the one I wanted to kill. You have to tell him I didn’t mean it, tell him I’m sorry. Eddie, oh, Eddie. The blood, the blood . . .

  [At this point, Miss Waverley became overwrought
. It was necessary to call the police surgeon to sedate her. She has been taken to the County Asylum for assessment. Interview suspended at 10.30 p.m., 24–4–1941]

  Dr Edward Waverley’s statement, given in extremis [Incomplete]

  I’ve always had a weakness. Nothing strange about that, young flesh is bound to call to a man. Must see it all the time in your line of work. Right from the start, years ago. At Ramillies, there was my twin. My other half. That’s what they say, your other half. They talk about marriage, but we were joined closer than that. Why not? We began as one, two halves of a whole. A unit, even our names. Eddie and Edie, right from the off. No one to worry us, no one to bother us. Our mother, deep in widowhood. Didn’t miss a father, never had one we knew of. Only our mother, weeping. Of course we were curious, of course we experimented. What child doesn’t? There we were, the two of us. Eating together, playing together every minute of the day. Idyllic, running wild at Ramillies, until Uncle Paul got married and we had to go. Sent me away to school, cold stone buildings by the sea, wind never stopped blowing. Like a snail out of its shell. And Edie, too, lost and angry. At home, but not at home. Longing for Ramillies, for the time before everything changed. In the holidays, we clung together, homesick for what we’d lost.

  We were innocent before, but school taught me what a boy can do. It was different then. Edie was more than willing. It was all the comfort we had.

  We’d turned sixteen when she kindled. Didn’t realise at first, hadn’t thought about consequences. It was comfort, I tell you. The need for comfort, and being together.

  I was at school when Mother found out. They tried to make her tell who she’d acted the slut with. They beat her, but she wouldn’t say. I couldn’t understand why she stopped writing, no one would tell me. Christmas came, but she wasn’t there. Later she told me about the home they sent her to, the place where the child was born. It was dead, deformed. They made her look at it, told her it was her sin caused it, made her believe it.

  We didn’t see each other for a year. I’d had a year to look around me. To look at other girls. Young girls, young bodies. Take my pick, my fill. Girls who couldn’t say no, servants. I loved them in their dirt, especially if it came from Ramillies. If they got pregnant, it was nothing to me. They were nothing to me, no better than they should be. Get rid of them, all part of the game. No one suspected I’d been Edie’s lover.