by Laura Powell
‘What Mr Gallagher?’ says Joan.
‘Let me take her,’ interrupts Mr Eden softly.
Joan helps him usher her upstairs to one of the spare bedrooms. Betty stops struggling and lets it all settle in her mind. It hadn’t occurred to her that they wouldn’t believe her. A hundred questions perhaps, but never disbelief.
Joan makes up the bed with fresh sheets while Mr Eden mans the door. Betty holds her head in her hands and drags herself around the room in circles, piecing together what to do. She could tell them where to find Mr Gallagher; he would explain it to them better than her, but her head is cluttered and she mustn’t risk breaking her promise. Hang, hang, hang, says the voice. If she loses him too, she will have no one.
‘There’ll be more,’ she whimpers, ‘if no one stops him.’
She says it over and over but Joan and Mr Eden stop answering.
‘I saw him with Miss Hollinghurst. They were kissing and then he killed her.’
‘Hush now,’ says Joan, but she looks at Mr Eden with wide eyes.
Downstairs, a door bangs open. It sounds as though lots of people are leaving the hotel at once.
‘I really saw him,’ she says, turning to Mr Eden. ‘He was near the pond. He was kissing her and it was definitely him. It was even his hat. He’ll get away if we don’t stop him.’
She crouches and cradles her knees. Her teeth chatter; she is freezing again. There is a knock at the bedroom door. Betty screams. Joan wraps a stiff arm around her.
‘It’s me,’ snaps Mrs Eden through the closed door.
Betty stops screaming but Joan doesn’t stop hugging. Mr Eden steps out onto the landing. Betty strains to listen.
‘Everything revolves around that little madam, I suppose,’ Mrs Eden is saying to him. ‘Just like her mother.’
‘For pity’s sake, Evelyn. Dolores has only just died,’ says Mr Eden.
‘And don’t we all know it?’
She says something in a quieter voice that Betty can’t make out, then she clicks away. Mr Eden comes back into the room with a cup in his hand.
‘Has Mr Paxon gone?’ says Betty.
‘You have to stop this,’ he says.
‘I’m not lying. I know he did it. Ask me anything. I’ll tell you; I’ll explain as much as I can. But I just don’t want Mr Gallagher harmed. Promise me Mr Gallagher won’t be locked up. He doesn’t deserve to hang; not when all he did was love me and do as I asked. It was my fault, you see. He—’
‘Hush now, we’ll talk about it tomorrow,’ says Mr Eden.
His voice is so soothing, she wonders for a moment whether Mrs Eden is right. Maybe she is just hysterical. What if she didn’t see them at all? It could have been any man wearing that sort of hat.
‘Here, drink this,’ he says, handing her a cup of something cloudy.
She realises that she is thirsty and gulps it fast. Only when she has finished does she register that it tasted chalky and unfamiliar.
‘What was it?’
‘It’ll do you some good,’ says Mr Eden.
‘He didn’t pour it, did he?’
‘Just something to calm your nerves.’
She jumps to her feet and spits onto the carpet to clear the dregs from her mouth.
‘You’re all in on it,’ she screams. ‘You’re all his accomplices.’
‘Stop this,’ cries Joan.
‘It’s poison. You’re trying to kill me next.’
She tries to lunge at the door but Mr Eden blocks it. Joan stands in front of the window with her arms folded across her chest. The bedroom goes grey. Everything spins. Betty flops onto the bed. The last thing she hears before she slides unconscious is Joan.
‘I can’t take her on, Tanc. Dolores was a friend but this is something else. I’m sorry. I just can’t.’
The bedroom is empty when she wakes. The curtains are drawn and the light that seeps through them is hard and yellow. She pats her arms to be certain that no one has killed her, that she really is alive, and she steps out of bed, avoiding the creaky floorboard.
The hotel is silent. She creeps out onto the landing. The bedroom doors are all shut and she isn’t certain what to do next. Maybe she should escape, but where? Who would help her? Doesn’t she need to make sure that they all believe Mr Paxon really is the murderer first? What if someone else is killed by him? Perhaps they already have been. They could be in the big room, a domino run of dead bodies, all spotted with blood. It would be her fault. But she hears a clatter in the kitchen so someone must be alive.
Betty tiptoes onto the top stair and pauses to listen. As she waits, she catches sight of the mirror on the wall, cocked at an angle. She looks into the glass and sees Mother. Mother! Mother looks exactly as she does on one of her black snowman days, only her hair is longer and browner. The sacks under her eyes are purple and her whole frame quivers. Betty bites her lip. Black Snowman Mother bites her lip too and Betty sees that it isn’t Mother at all. That second, the front door crashes open. Betty grabs the mirror from the hook and holds it in front of her as a shield. Downstairs Mrs Eden charges into the hall with a younger man wearing a white uniform. Betty doesn’t recognise him.
‘Tancred,’ calls Mrs Eden.
Mr Eden steps out of the big room.
‘Ssh, she’s still asleep upstairs,’ he whispers.
Betty watches them from the top stair. They stand in a triangle in the hall. None of them seems to know what to say next.
‘This is Julian, he’s a guard there,’ says Mrs Eden eventually.
Mr Eden shakes his head.
‘I thought we were going to talk about this, Evelyn.’
‘We can’t manage her. We’ve three hotels to run and a new manager to recruit.’
‘But we were going to discuss it, not just pack her off.’
‘We’ve done our bit. She’s not family and this isn’t a stable home for a girl in her condition. Even Julian agrees.’
Mrs Eden nods at the white-uniformed man. He nods back. Betty forces herself not to cry. He lied. He said this was her home and now he is sending her away. She is about to remind him of that, but the front door opens again and a fourth person appears. Betty’s eyes are too blurry to make out who it is.
‘Is she here?’ says the figure.
‘Not now,’ says Mr Eden.
‘My father’s in pieces because of her.’
He has George’s whinnying voice. She looks again. He has George’s stance too.
‘Get him out of here,’ she shrieks from the top of the stairs.
They all look up at her, stunned.
‘Stay away from me,’ she shouts at him.
She raises the mirror above her head.
‘Be careful, Betty. Don’t fall,’ calls Mr Eden.
‘I told you,’ says Mrs Eden. ‘She’s unstable.’
‘Get him away from me. Lock the door.’
George steps forward.
‘Mr Eden, please,’ wails Betty. ‘Don’t let him near me. His father’s sent him after me.’
‘Do you know what you’ve done, you mad bitch?’ cries George, his face taut with anger. She has never seen his face like that before. ‘My father’s all over the place. You can’t shout lies like that. They ruin people.’
‘Wait outside,’ says Mr Eden.
‘Get him away,’ screams Betty, the mirror still raised.
‘If this is some twisted way of getting your own back because Mary and I are happy,’ continues George.
‘You, get out,’ barks Mr Eden at George.
‘You’ll apologise to him for your vicious lies,’ says George. ‘You’ll do it in front of the whole village. God help you if you don’t.’
Wind blows open the front door and Betty sees that a small crowd has gathered in the street. She can’t make them out because Mr Eden steps forward and positions himself on the bottom stair.
‘Come on now, Betty boo,’ he soothes.
‘Stop calling me that.’
‘Put that mirror bac
k on the wall and let’s sort this out.’
‘Only if he leaves.’
Mr Eden glares at George. He backs out of the hall but he waits on the doorstep, still looking furious.
‘There’s a nice lady nurse in a car outside,’ Mr Eden is saying. ‘She’s going to look after you. And so will this nice man, Julian.’
The guard scowls. He doesn’t look nice.
‘After a few days, you’ll feel right as a kite again and then we can work something out,’ continues Mr Eden.
‘Tancred, don’t make promises you can’t keep.’
‘Why won’t anyone believe me?’ sobs Betty, clutching the mirror to her chest. ‘I’m telling the truth. Mr Paxon killed Miss Hollinghurst. He probably killed all of them.’
‘Make her shut up,’ shouts George from the doorstep.
Mr Eden looks at Mrs Eden. Betty sobs harder. A string of saliva yoyos from her bottom lip.
‘I had a long talk with Inspector Napier last night,’ Mr Eden calls up the stairs, looking Betty in the eye. ‘I want you to know that I listened to everything you said.’
‘So you believe me?’
‘Betty, Inspector Napier confirmed that Mr Forbes’s fingerprints are on the knives. They’re his knives from his shop and one of them was certainly used to kill Maureen, just like the judge said. He probably killed the others too. Do you understand?’
‘But it was Mr Paxon. I saw him myself.’
‘No, Betty, it was Mr Forbes. There’s not a shred of proof that Mr Paxon would want to harm anyone. He’s a good man with a good life whereas Mr Forbes is very troubled. He and Maureen had a love affair and it’s quite possible that he was infatuated with the other girls too, God bless their souls.’
‘What about the nights they died? Where was Mr Paxon? That’ll be the proof.’
‘Betty, he was with Inspector Napier himself when Maureen was killed. Do you see that it’s simply not possible? Now the best thing for us to do is—’
‘Maybe the Inspector’s in on it too. He and Mr Paxon are good friends, aren’t they? Or what if Mr Paxon threatened him?’
‘That’s enough Betty.’
‘I saw him by the pond with Miss Hollinghurst. It’s in the pond too.’
‘What is?’
‘The giblet. I had a baby and it’s in the pond. I can tell you everything, if you like. As long as you promise that Mr Gallagher won’t get into trouble.’
‘Who’s Mr Gallagher? What are you talking about? Come on now. Put down the mirror and come downstairs.’
‘But I saw Mr Paxon in the clearing with Miss Hollinghurst.’
‘As clearly as you see me now?’ says Mr Eden with a sigh.
‘Not exactly.’ She pauses. ‘But it was his hat. It was him. I even went to London to put it right.’
‘She’s talking us in circles,’ says Mrs Eden.
‘Maybe she’s upset about him and that Mary girl he mentioned,’ says the guard, Julian, nodding at George and everyone looks surprised to hear him speak.
Mrs Eden gives a dismissive wave of her head.
‘Sir, you believe me, don’t you?’ sobs Betty to Mr Eden, swallowing a thick glob of phlegm and staring straight at him, ignoring the others. ‘I don’t lie. Not when it’s important like this.’
‘I don’t think you’re lying, but maybe you’re a little bit confused after the shock of your mother passing away.’
Mother! The mirror slips from her grasp. Mr Eden jumps back, as it falls to the bottom of the stairs and smashes into lots of tiny mirrors.
‘Do something! She attacked you, Tancred,’ shrieks Mrs Eden.
Mr Eden looks between her and the small crowd outside. Betty wavers on the top stair. I didn’t mean to, she wants to say but everything is moving too quickly. Her toes curl over the edge of the step. Maybe she could jump down and swoop out of the door, up into the sky and all the way to the clearing again. If Gallagher isn’t there, she could fly back to London or across the Channel to his father’s house in France. He will make everything slot back into place. She raises her arms and is about to dive.
‘No,’ shouts Mr Eden.
He rushes up the staircase, the guard just behind him. He clamps her waist and the guard holds her legs, his fingers gouging into her. She is still sobbing.
‘Paxon’s dangerous. Stop him,’ cries Betty.
‘Sedate her,’ calls Mrs Eden.
‘It’s best we get her on the road,’ says the guard. ‘It’s a long drive.’
They haul her outside to a long black car; there is something familiar about it. A lady dressed as a nurse sits on the back seat. When she sees them, she slides across to make room for Betty. She doesn’t smile.
‘The car,’ cries Betty. ‘It was Mr Paxon’s car! I was leaving the pictures and it slowed down – it was coming from Spoole the same night the girl, Elsa, was killed there. It was big and black and wide. Surely that proves it.’
The guard pushes Betty towards the open car door. She cranes her head to check Mr Eden heard but she spots Mr Paxon in the crowd, his face grey and bloodless and staring straight at her. She propels herself towards him, but the guard has her tight.
‘You,’ she shrieks. ‘Admit it! ADMIT IT.’
She spits at him but misses. It hits the pavement and Mr Paxon doesn’t move. He hovers in the air, his feet not quite touching the ground. She blinks and he disappears, or perhaps he was never there at all. Betty wipes spit from her mouth.
‘She’s feral,’ calls a voice she doesn’t recognise.
Everyone in the crowd grows fangs. The gutter runs with blood. Betty weeps blood too, but when she rubs it away and looks at her hands, the liquid is clear.
‘There,’ she shouts, pointing.
She can see him properly now. He stands at the back of the crowd, half hidden by his fedora. It is the same fedora he wore the afternoon he killed Miss Hollinghurst. He must be wearing it to taunt her. She makes one last weak lunge but the guard still grips onto her arms. He drags her to the car, pushes down her head, and forces her onto the back seat. The nurse examines her fingernails and says nothing. She has a single long eyebrow that cuts across her face and she smells of talcum powder.
The guard slams the car door. Mrs Eden eyeballs her through the window and threads her arm through the crook of Mr Eden’s elbow. He shrugs her away and looks at Betty.
‘Find Mr Gallagher,’ shouts Betty through the glass. ‘He’ll explain. It’s all true.’
The guard revs the engine.
‘You’ll help, won’t you? You’ll find him,’ she continues.
Mr Eden looks at her with a sad expression. She reads his reply from his lips.
‘I’m sorry Betty boo. It’s for the best.’
‘Don’t call me that,’ she shrieks.
Mr Eden turns away and strides back into the hotel with his head hung.
‘Don’t call me that,’ she screams again. ‘No one must ever call me that. Only Mother. I’ll never answer to it again.’
Her long howl rips through the air as the car threads along Newl Grove. Minutes later, St Steele is a smudge out of the back window.
They arrive forty minutes later. The building is red bricked with castle turrets and a fence of barbed wire wrapped around it like arms. The black sign outside has faded. Once, the words read: Middlebury Pauper Lunatic Asylum.
Chapter 20
Fifty years later
Engines snarl, tracks hiss and the belly of the train slants sideways, slicing off the sky and drawing the fields closer through the windows. Mary holds onto the plastic table top to steady herself. Someone in the next row is munching cheese puffs. They smell rancid. She tries to block out the stench; to keep her balance; and to fill the blank page on the table in front of her with words, then sentences, then a whole letter, but the chewing gets louder.
The train lurches and her sickness rises. Mary pulls herself to her feet, gathers her bag and coat, and struggles along the aisle, slamming into chair ends and people’s sho
ulders until she reaches the toilet. There is no handle and it takes her a minute to spot the flashing button that opens the sliding door. It smells of chemicals and urine inside, no better than the cheese, but at least she is alone. She navigates the door shut and locked, turns down the toilet seat with a square of toilet paper and unfolds the letter again. She takes a deep breath before she continues writing; so far she has only managed three words.
Dear Mr Forbes
Deciding to write to him had been easy; there had been a succession of much harder decisions before that. First, leaving behind John Gallagher and choosing where to go next. Her feet had dragged her back to the station. She was surprised that the wrens still whistled and the sun still shivered for it must have been midday, then she had checked her watch and it was still before ten. Funny, she had thought, how so much can shift in such a thin wafer of time.
The train was already at the platform and she had slipped on, just as the doors shut behind her. The next twenty-six minutes she had spent deciding what to do when she reached Clapham Junction station. Her clothes were still stiff with shower gel and she smelled vaguely mousy, so really she ought to have returned home, but how could she slot back in there when everything was still so incomplete?
When she arrived at Clapham Junction, she had checked the board: the train home to Richmond would leave in two minutes or the train to Reading in eight. Another swift connection from there would deliver her to St Erth by teatime, a short taxi ride from St Steele. The possibility had made her shiver, though she hadn’t a clue how it would help if she went there.
The tannoy had bleated and the announcer had shouted the final call for her Richmond train. She had lingered on the spot long after the dongle of the closing doors, then dashed to the ticket machine, bought a single to St Erth instead and barrelled up the steps just in time to make it. Her lungs had heaved and her hands shook but she felt more awake than she had in months.
As the train slid away, she had forced herself not to pick through her morning or think about John Gallagher at all. She had rooted around in her handbag for a mint to help her think and unearthed the newspaper that, days before, she had rolled up and hidden there to avoid looking at Nigel Forbes’s eyes or face or words. She still hadn’t read the interview properly and she was about to unroll it when it hit her: she should write to Nigel Forbes directly. She could explain everything and offer to help clear his name. He must still have a solicitor who would know how to go about it.