Three Times Removed

by M K Jones

  They looked at each other, and Maggie continued.

  “How do I explain this to Alice?” Maggie looked perplexed. Zelah was silent.

  “When I was in the graveyard I took a couple of photos of the gravestone. Then I dropped the camera. When I printed them out, I found this.” She handed a photograph to Zelah. It showed the bottom of the grave and some grass, and a woman’s arm clothed in black silk with the hand in a black glove, reaching towards the camera. Behind the arm were wispy black shapes.

  “I presume that’s not your arm?”

  “No. There was no-one else there. But it does mean something. In the past, I’ve had a dream, like a still picture, of a coffin and a group of people walking across grass. I don’t get it often and I always wake up before it ends.”

  “Then this,” Zelah pointed at the picture, “is a ghost, and before you start to argue with me, let me explain.” Maggie’s surprise levels had been so significantly raised, she felt she had to hear more.

  “People generally believe ghosts are spirits of the dead who, for some mad reason, don’t want to be dead. Well, that’s rubbish! Ghosts are fractions of memory. Something within our mind is projecting out, so we think we can see it. I think that’s what Alice saw at the cemetery, but in her case it was incredibly strong and detailed. It may also explain why she thought the girl could see her. I don’t know, I’ll have to think about that, do some research. In your case, you’ve just projected your old dream. It may be more than a dream. Maybe it’s an image of the memory of your great-grandfather’s funeral. If you were in the same place, on the same day, and at the same time that it actually took place, the projection was strong enough to appear on the photograph.”

  Maggie chose her words carefully. The first thoughts that had come to mind as Zelah spoke were, “embarrassing” and “crazy”. She settled for, “Wow! That’s quite difficult to come to terms with.”

  “Hmm. Very diplomatic. What you really think is that I’m crazy. Well I told you, it’s a theory. Got a better one?”

  Maggie smiled. “You know I haven’t. But you’ve got to accept that this is a lot of strange information in a short space of time. I want to think it through before I can give you my opinion. That’s how I like to do things.”

  “Works for me,” Zelah replied. “Let’s move on. Back to these.” She pointed to the papers lying on the table. “I can tell you that what I’ve found fits with what you’re telling me, and convinces me that there’s a much bigger story here. Now, I told you that there was probably a missing child? I was right! It’s a girl, born in 1873, in May. I’ve also checked every death of a child of the same name up to and including 1911. I can’t find any record of a death. Now, let’s say she just wasn’t at home when the 1881 enumerator called. Where would she have been? Other family, grandparents, maybe?” Zelah wasn’t asking questions that needed answers. “Not that I can find yet, but I’ll keep looking. I’ve checked every family that you traced – you did a good job, by the way. Following the diverging lines of parents, just enough to give me access to where they all were at each ten-year interval. There wasn’t any child of that name in Monmouthshire, either with family or working as a servant by 1891, or 1901. She just… disappeared. So the next step is to find out what happened to her.”

  This time Maggie saw a pause to ask a question.

  “What was the girl’s name?”

  “You know full well, Maggie. Alice. To give her her full name, Alice Ruth Jones. Exactly the same as your daughter.”

  Maggie exhaled slowly and shrugged her shoulders. “How do we find out what happened to her?”

  “First, show me everything you’ve got with you from the trunk. Now that we know her name, let’s see if there’s anything we’ve already got that makes sense.”

  Maggie brought out the school photo and the newspaper article with the crossing schedule and placed them on the table. Before they could begin to examine them, the cafe door opened and footsteps approached their table. Maggie looked up at a dark-haired, rotund, middle-aged man in a grey suit and sober tie hovering behind Zelah. She smiled at him questioningly.

  “Zelah, sorry to interrupt, but we need you upstairs for a couple of minutes.”

  “Not now!” Zelah snapped, not looking up.

  “It’s OK, Zelah, if you need to go,” said Maggie.

  “Later.” Zelah retorted.

  “The Mayor, Zelah…. you agreed!” The man was hovering from foot to foot like a child delivering bad news to a teacher.

  “Go, Zelah. You can’t keep a mayor waiting!”

  Zelah snorted and stood up quickly. She nodded to the man, who in turn nodded gratefully to Maggie as he and Zelah left. Maggie took the opportunity to get herself another cup of coffee. She could tell that the woman behind the counter had watched the exchange and departure with interest. Maggie couldn’t resist asking, “You know Zelah quite well around here?”

  The woman rolled her eyes, then looked warily at Maggie.

  “It’s OK.” Maggie smiled assuringly at her. “I don’t bite. Who was that man?” she asked.

  “That was Sir Roger Williams, the patron of the museum.”

  Maggie was astounded. “Perhaps she didn’t know…”

  The woman cut her off. “Yes, she did know who he was when she brushed him off. I’ve never heard her speak nicely to anyone in all the time I’ve been here,” looking at Maggie for sympathy.

  “Perhaps because no-one speaks nicely to her. I find her friendly and helpful,” Maggie knew this wasn’t strictly true but determined to speak up for Zelah. In truth, she was amazed that Zelah hadn’t been banned from the building.

  “Not that they’ll do anything about her,” the woman went on grumpily. “Can’t, can they?”

  Maggie wanted to ask why not, but didn’t want to let on that she didn’t know that much about Zelah.

  “Have you been up there, yet?” the woman asked, referring to the art exhibition on the floor above which explained the greater than usual number of people milling around.

  “No,” she replied. But perhaps I will while I’m waiting. Will you keep an eye on the things on our table please?” The woman nodded and went back to stacking tea cups.

  Thirty Five

  Grabbing her bag, Maggie left the cafe and, seeing posters advertising the exhibition followed the signs upstairs. The exhibition was on the top floor of the library, in a gallery next to the museum. Maggie walked in to find a crowd of people admiring the display of fifteen paintings. In front of one of them, the mayor of Newport stood in a group being photographed, with Sir Roger Williams next to him. Standing on his other side, with a tightly fixed smile, was Zelah.

  Maggie recognised the artist’s name, Martin Fitzgerald. She had seen an article in the local newspaper and knew that he was gaining an international reputation. The article said that he had died a few years earlier, that his family infrequently showed his paintings, and they rarely put any up for sale. When two had been sold the auction had attracted much interest. Both paintings had been sold overseas, and each for six-figure sums.

  Maggie walked round looking at the paintings: watercolour scenes of the countryside and coast of south Wales and the west coast of Ireland. She found them delightful, bright, and vibrant. Although many were painted in autumn and winter, it seemed to Maggie that Fitzgerald had captured a tremendous love of the countryside, so that even the fierce, devastatingly destructive winter storm on one huge canvas gave her a feeling of exhilaration. She could understand why he had such an excellent reputation. What a shame there would be no more.

  While admiring the storm painting, Maggie was distracted by a waving arm trying to attract her attention. Zelah was gesturing discreetly towards the exit to go back to the cafe. Maggie left, followed by Zelah a moment later. Maggie hoped for an explanation of what had been going on upstairs with the museum patron and the mayor, but instead Zelah carried on the conversation where they had left off. She silently examined Maggie’s items on the table intens
ely.

  “This clipping doesn’t have a date on it. But we can probably check it in the archives. The steamer information is from 1883. Someone was intending to take a trip. Doesn’t look like there are any more leads from these. Shame. I’m going back into the reference room after this, so I’ll take a look at the Merlin archives, to see what I can find.”

  “Thanks,” Maggie replied.

  “I also had a thought about trying to find out some more about your family, but it means going public. How would you feel? Some people don’t like the idea of sharing family details in the open. Might find some dirty linen.”

  “It would depend on what you mean by ‘going public?’”

  “Post on family history forums, for a start. Someone else may be looking for a connection and put the story on the website. Lots do that.”

  “Sounds good. Anything else?”

  “No, unless you want me to explain what was going on upstairs?”

  “Only if you want to tell me, Zelah. If you don’t, that’s fine.” She was curious, but she didn’t want to satisfy her curiosity if it made Zelah’s uncomfortable.

  “I introduced myself to you as Zelah Trevear. It’s my maiden name and I prefer to use it.” She looked up for the first time in their conversation. “You and I get on, I think?”

  “Yes, I think we do.”

  “And you said that you liked me. Well, I’m not an easy person to get on with, never have been. But you don’t seem to mind that.”

  Maggie sat back in her chair. “I don’t look for faults in people, Zelah, if that’s what you mean. I give people the benefit of the doubt. I’m an easy person to get on with, unless someone really pisses me off. But it takes a lot to do that. But past your obvious rudeness I see a kind and interesting person. You’ve helped me so much, and got me further in a couple of days that I would have managed in weeks. You didn’t have to help, so I appreciate it I would like to know why you chose to help me when you’re so off with other people, but it’s up to you to tell me, if you want to.”

  “Big speech,” Zelah replied, smiling. “I believe you see in history what I see, a connection to the past, to real people. I don’t just see a name or a title. It’s more than just certificates and gravestones. I see real, thinking, acting, loving, hating, arguing, people. Sometimes I feel like I know them, and I think you’re the same.”

  Maggie smiled and sat forwards.

  “Yes, that’s just how I’ve felt since I started this. For me, there’s a deep sense of knowing. I’ve always had a good imagination, but I lost the sense of enjoyment it gave me. Until now. I feel like I have a real sense of purpose again.” Maggie paused. “Anyway, you were explaining to me about your maiden name?”

  “We agree then. So, you are probably the only person in the building who doesn’t know my married name is Fitzgerald. Martin Fitzgerald was my husband. I use my maiden name because I don’t want to trade on his celebrity. When people know they suck up to me and I hate it.”

  “From what I saw, your husband was a wonderful artist.”

  “Martin was a wonderful man. His talent was natural, too. He just… had a gift.”

  “Well, he got to use his gift. You must be proud.”

  “I’d like to talk to you about him. But not today. Now,” she went on briskly, back to her usual manner, “are you going to post the story?”

  “Yes, later today, or over the weekend.” Maggie remembered she had agreed that Alice could bring her friends around after school to look at the clothes.

  “My sister’s coming later. She’s got a bee in her bonnet about something, so she’ll be round to check on me. I’ll risk asking her again if Mum or Dad left any more papers. When shall we meet next?”

  “How about early next week? I’m going to be busy with this exhibition over the weekend. If either of us find anything interesting in the meantime, we can call.” Zelah paused. “And Maggie, if you’re worried about anything your daughter says, please let me know. I really would like to help.”

  “Thank you, Zelah. I’ll call you after the weekend. Good luck with the exhibition. Take the newspaper clippings.”

  Thirty Six

  May 1883

  Mrs Moira Davies checked her appearance for the final time in the mirror in her sitting room, sighed deeply at what she saw, shrugged her shoulders, and prepared to leave the house. In the seventeen years that she had worked at Knyghton House, from her time as a serving maid to her rise to housekeeper, her appearance before the other servants had never been anything less than perfect.

  Her above-average height and strong build had prevented her from being bullied as a junior and when her talent and dedication gained her the role of housekeeper, at the age of forty, a wordless stare from such an imposing height could quell even the cheekiest parlour maid.

  The reflection of Moira that stared back today was lanky and gaunt. Black circles under her eyes and yellow skin evidenced the desperate circumstances of the last few months. Throughout the series of deaths, first of her parents, then her husband, she had struggled to keep herself well dressed, tidy, and stern, despite the lack of sleep and the grief. But the death of her sister, almost her last remaining relative, just two weeks earlier, had finally torn a ragged gash in her façade.

  She had seen the servants stare and look quickly away, whispering to each other as the black circles expanded down to her colourless cheeks. Uncharacteristically, she didn’t chide and chivvy them or order them to return to work. Often she found herself in some part of the house with no idea how she had arrived there, crying quietly to herself.

  There was only one person who came close to being a confidante, to whom she had eventually related the tragedy of her sister. The butler, Mr Mervyn Hughes, had been greatly concerned when they retired to her sitting room after dining in the servants’ hall the previous evening. It was then she told him her plan.

  “Mrs Davies, I can’t believe you are serious in this intent! Her Ladyship will not be pleased if you just depart without notice. It’s clear that you haven’t been sleeping well. Your behaviour has been, shall we say, erratic.”

  He paused to cough behind his hand with embarrassment. Their relationship, although cordial, was strictly professional. She sat up stiffly in her armchair as he spoke, equally embarrassed. They had worked together for ten years and had only occasionally spoken of personal matters. He had been sympathetic when her husband died and later her parents, but had asked no questions.

  “I am aware, Mr Hughes. I have not been unnoticing of the servants’ behaviour. But I hope I have continued to do my job to My Lordship and My Ladyship’s satisfaction.”

  “There’s been no criticism from His Lordship and Her Ladyship. But they have asked questions and I’ve taken leave to tell them of your most recent loss. They are, of course, sympathetic,” he smiled at her, to convey his own sympathy, “but they will expect that if you need time to visit Weston-super-Mare you will give some notice, at least.”

  “I can only apologise, to them and to you, Mr Hughes. But I must go. I cannot rest whilst my niece is missing. It was disturbing enough to hear that she’d been moved to the poor house after my sister’s death, but to find that she has run away…” she glanced at the letter that lay open on the table next to her chair, “makes me fearful for her safety. I must go immediately to find out what happened to her. The poorhouse!”

  Her face conveyed the misery she had felt since the news of her niece’s fate had reached her in stages during the week. It had culminated in the letter from the poor house that arrived earlier that evening. Now she felt nothing but determination to find the girl, as much as anything for her own salvation.

  “Perhaps she didn’t receive my letter. I told her that I would come as soon as I could. Or perhaps she didn’t believe me. There has been little contact between Margaret and me since our parents died, or even before. I didn’t even ask about her child.” She gazed into the fire, talking more to herself.

  “Twelve years old and quite a
simple girl, they said. Not much… intelligence. But where could she go? Back to their lodgings, perhaps. It all happened so quickly. She must have been so frightened. Perhaps no-one has explained anything to her! Perhaps she can’t read. I never thought of that!” She jerked her head back to the butler. “Of course! She couldn’t read my letter. But she must have known it was from me because there is no-one else who would write to her!”

  Hughes watched her, pursing his lips, uncertain if he should agree with her or say what he really thought.

  “You may well be right, Mrs Davies. A frightened child may indeed take irrational action. “But…” He got no further before her train of thought interrupted him.

  “Irrational? Yes! What could she have done? Perhaps she has taken my letter to find someone to read it to her? I shall begin at my sister’s lodgings. Someone there may have seen the child.” She nodded, then stood.

  “Goodnight then, Mrs Davies. I’ll inform His Lordship that you’ll be taking some days leave of absence. Shall I discuss the arrangements for your absence with Miss Eskwith?”

  “I shall speak to her before I leave. Thank you, Mr Hughes.”

  “At what time will you depart?”

  “Shortly before six. I have asked Morgan to have the carriage ready to take me to Newport station. I believe I can take a train from there to Gloucester where I shall stay overnight before travelling on tomorrow. I shall keep you informed of my progress.”

  He nodded, left the sitting room, and made his way to the butler’s pantry where the under butler was awaiting final instructions on locking up for the night. He had decided not to speak to the earl and countess until the following morning. The earl would be mildly annoyed but would sanction the action as long as everything in the house was unaffected. Mrs Davies was too excellent a housekeeper to lose.

  Moira pulled her curtains against the thunderstorm and prepared for another sleepless, guilt-filled night, conjecturing and worrying about the fate of her niece. She felt responsible for the girl’s disappearance. She would find her and look after her. She had failed to save any of the others. But not this time. Not with this last one.