by M K Jones
“OK. The next one’s also from Margaret, again to Ruthie. It’s dated six months later, March 1884.
“My Dear Sister,
I thank God for your excellent news of the birth of your grandson, George, and of course we thank Our Lord that he has seen fit to bring your dear daughter, Ruth, to a good recovery from near death once again. We continue to pray for the return of little Alice, but I agree that there can be little hope now. I too believe that Ruth’s husband knows best. She must come to accept it.
I regret I can give you no more information about the drowning of our great-grandmother’s child. I do not believe she ever told me the schoolmaster’s name. I do recall our grandmother telling me of her fear of teachers! Strange that your daughter has found such a one also. But if the woman is gone, best for all, I say.
May Christ keep you in His Grace.
Your sister, Margaret.”
Maggie looked up from the letter at Zelah. “Your thoughts?”
“Let’s read them all through before we decide what to think.”
“Well, there are two more, addressed to Mr J Jones, Esq, and one from my Ruth, that she must have written but not sent.”
“Who wrote the letters to her husband?”
Maggie opened the envelopes and scanned the contents. Each contained a single sheet.
“This is from a detective. And this one’s from a police inspector in Weston-super-Mare. Shall I read them out?” Zelah nodded. She had been making notes in a pad as Maggie had read out the first two letters.
“To Mr. J. Jones, Esq.
Sir, I write to acknowledge your instruction that I and my colleague should cease in the search of your daughter, Alice Jones. Having traced her to Newport, we can find no further sighting. As the cadaver you viewed in Weston-super-Mare was not that of your daughter, we cannot at this time make any further recommendations for action, but will be available to assist you, should you wish to re-commence your search in the light of any new information you receive.
J. R. Williams. Williams & Andover Detective Agency. November 4, 1883.”
Zelah carried on making notes and told Maggie to read the final letter.
“Right, this one is dated September 1883.”
“Mr. J. Jones, Esq. Dear Sir,
I respond to your kind enquiry of 5th of this month but can give you no news of the identity of the young girl found in the sea at Weston-super-Mare. We had report of a missing girl, the daughter of a murdered prostitute, Margaret Peach, of this town, by the name of Miss Esme Peach. The girl had run away from the Poor House in which she had been placed and following your confirmation that the body in the sea was not that of your daughter, we considered that the remains might be those of the girl. But I have recently received news from the girl’s maternal aunt that she went to her home where she is now residing, alive and well, in south Wales. I wish you success in finding your missing daughter.
Yours truly, Edward Mathers, Inspector of Police, Weston-super-Mare.”
“I’m struggling to take this all in,” Maggie said.
Zelah stopped writing and looked up from the table. “OK. Here’s what we’ve got. There’ve been two drownings close to your family in four generations. Interesting, but not significant. An unpleasant teacher seems to have been close to both. Again, interesting, but difficult to see if they’re connected, as the events must be about eighty years apart. The bit about the names could be something, though. We’ll need to look at Ruth’s family to find out what the first drowned child was called.” She paused and nodded at Maggie. “I think we know, but I want to check. Now, when it comes to your great-grandmother, Ruth, we knew that she was ill when she was pregnant. Louisa told you, and this confirms it. So, if she was pregnant when Alice disappeared, she would have had to leave the search to her husband, John. Her mother’s sister’s letter hints that Ruth wasn’t happy with his efforts. But, he did quite a lot actually, employing private detectives. But now, let’s look at this story of Miss Esme Peach.”
“Why so?”
“If you want a coincidence, here’s one. Alice Jones goes missing and her parents believe that she might have washed up in Weston-super-Mare. Enough for John to go there to check. An article about the Waverley which goes to Weston was found in one of your trunks. But the body isn’t Alice. Then, another missing girl, with the same name as Alice’s drowned friend, Esme, turns up in south Wales, having supposedly run away from Weston.” She saw Maggie’s puzzled expression. “Surely you can see there’s something odd in that?”
“But the letter from the inspector says Esme is with her aunt. The aunt would have known her own niece, surely?”
“That’s for us to find out, isn’t it?” Zelah replied, eyes gleaming.
“Well, I’m not convinced, but I suppose there’s no harm in checking it out. One more to go.”
She took the last letter carefully out of its envelope and unfolded it. The writing was small, neat and even, the ink still clear after more than a hundred years.
“My Dear Sister,
Thank you for your kind and thoughtful sentiments. I am feeling much better now, thank you, and can look forwards a little more to each day. The house still seems strangely quiet. I have told Maud and James that they must not keep the children quiet for my sake. But they shake their heads and say it is not seemly. Poor things.
I wanted to tell you how grateful I was for your attention following John’s funeral, and for listening to me. I still cannot reconcile the strange events of those days. James and Maud, and indeed, William and Sara, believe that I was not in my right mind to think that I saw and heard such strange things. But I know that I did and that it was not just brought on by grief. But how to explain it? I cannot, by any means sensible and acceptable to God-fearing people. That only leaves – but I need not tell you what that leaves us to imagine. It is too shocking.
Richard Robinson has been exceptionally kind and thoughtful, as always. He is very concerned that I am planning to visit Hereford, and counsels against it. And I know that it may cause much scandal in the village that I am going about, albeit it in my widow’s weeds. But I must know. You alone seemed to understand my need to find out the truth. I hope that Richard can be persuaded to accompany me, however reluctantly.
I did indeed pay my visit to Gwen Ellis. She is so much troubled and wandering in her mind now and is failing fast. But when her Cerys introduced me I thought that she seemed to know me. When I talked to her about Alice and her Esme and showed her the school photograph she grabbed at my hand. She kept saying, she wasn’t there.’ I explained to her that they were both gone a long time, but she shook her head and said, ‘I looked through the window and she wasn’t there.’ I asked who she meant because we always knew that Alice and Esme weren’t there, but she looked frightened. It has taken me some time to realise what she could mean, but I believe I have it now. I do believe the visit to Hereford will confirm my fears.
You may wonder why I want to know, after all this time. But this, I now understand, is not just about what happened to Alice. It was there before and will be there again. We must all be watchful.
I confided in William that I had seen the teacher, Probert, at John’s funeral. Of course, he remains doubtful and thinks I need to rest. He refused to believe that she was unchanged after all this time, but I know the truth. I tried to put him on his guard, as I have all of them, but I am sad to say that they look at me with troubled eyes. I must find a way to tell their children. It must not happen again!
I do believe that my Alice is still alive, somewhere in this world, although I may not be united with her until the glory of the next. I opened the trunk in the attic again and found her clothes and possessions. I remembered how little she took with her, just a clean dress and apron and one of the handkerchiefs that John and I gave her for her birthday last year that I sewed with her initials. I still believe that she did not intend to be long away from us. I will visit John’s resting place again tomorrow. I will write again soon, my
dear Mary Anne.
Your sister, Ruth.”
Maggie put the letter down and looked up at Zelah.
“When was that letter written?”
“June 14th, 1909.”
“So tomorrow to the day, a hundred and six years ago, she’ll be going to visit the grave. How about you do the same?”
“Do you think…” Maggie’s voice trailed off as she realised the implications of what Zelah was saying. “No way, that would be too much of a coincidence! Anyway,” she added after a moment’s thought, “she doesn’t say what time she’ll be there.”
“You’ll have to take a guess. Worth a try?”
“I don’t know. But I want to think through all of this other stuff. Is the teacher thing a coincidence?”
“I don’t know. The first was a man, now a woman. But there was something strange, yes. If she’s talking about Alice’s teacher, there was a gap of over twenty five years, but she seems to be suggesting that the woman hadn’t changed at all. And something has scared her, the same as her great-grandmother, making her believe she has to warn her grand-children. Which makes me think…” she trailed off and frowned.
“Is there anything significant in your letters?” Maggie asked.
“I didn’t think so at first, but now I’m not so sure. Just one, from a Mr Charles Morris, on behalf of himself and his wife, Bessie.” She rummaged through the papers. “Ah, here it is.”
“Dear Mrs. Jones,
I write to express the most sincere condolences of my wife, Bessie, and myself on the death of your esteemed and respected husband, our dear friend, John. Such a great, God-fearing man will be much missed within our community, as well as by his family. The other Elders will, I am sure, write to you, but I wish to condole with you on behalf of those of us at Chapel who knew him best.
Bessie sends her wish that you will call upon her for any service at any time and asks that you be assured of her sincere friendship. She has also asked me to relate to you that she did not herself see Miss Eira Probert at the funeral service. She agrees that it was unexpected that Miss Probert would attend after such a long time, but is sure that you will take solace from her presence. In regard to your questions, Bessie also asks me to advise you that when Miss Probert departed to join our dear Mr. Pugh at his congregation in Hereford, Bessie wrote to her on more than one occasion, but did not receive any reply.
Please be assured of our kindest wishes and our desire to do whatever we can to help you bear your loss.
Charles Morris.”
“They sound nice,” Maggie commented. “It seems Ruth was making enquiries shortly after John’s death about the schoolteacher that she thought she saw. I wonder what she found out? She told her sister she was going to Hereford, where this man Pugh went. Zelah. Zelah?”
For a moment Maggie thought that something bad had happened. Zelah was staring into space over Maggie’s head, with an expression of amazement.
“What’s the matter?”
“I… I remembered a story, Martin’s dreadful mother used to tell tales from what she called ‘the old country’. Something just rang a bell.”
“What?”
“Not now. Let me think.”
Maggie got up and walked back into the kitchen to pour herself another cup of tea. Returning to the living room sipping tea, she found Zelah packing up the letters.
“No time for that,” she said briskly, taking the cup from Maggie’s hand. “Plan of action, I think. First, you go to the cemetery tomorrow. See what happens. Then, we need to spend time on census and parish records, looking for Ruth’s ancestry. That’s going to be a challenge because of the female name changes, but we can do it. Can you get to Carmarthen this week, if we need to go there?”
“I suppose so,” Maggie replied. “I’ll ask Fee to look after the kids after school. But just this week,” she added. “I’ve only got two weeks after this week and I want to spend as much time with them as I can.”
“Understood. How about tomorrow I start on census records, and you go to the cemetery?”
Maggie’s looked reluctant.
“Come on, Maggie, it’s quite safe. They’re all dead!”
“Someone has been watching me and tried to push me over the side of the boat. It doesn’t feel safe.”
Zelah hesitated for a moment. “OK, I understand. If you don’t want to do it…”
“Of course I want to do it. “I’ll call you when I get back tomorrow.”
Sixty One
Maggie dropped the children at the school, but instead of going home she followed a compulsion that had grown since her conversation with Graeme. She headed up the mountain towards The Pond. The higher she went, the narrower the track became. At first there were high hedges on each side and the remains of old cottages, but then she came to open land. Across the cattle grid, the landscape opened up into a mountain vista. She reached the empty car park, as Graeme had described.
As she got out of the car Maggie’s hair was whipped around her face by a succession of small, chilly breezes that whisked around her body, like tiny whirlwinds, each enveloping her for seconds. The view was magnificent, to the sea and across the Channel to her right, down to the town in front of her and more mountains to her left. Behind her, a stony path led off in the direction of The Pond, signposted by a wooden marker.
The path rose steeply at first and followed a bend to the left. Maggie caught sight in the distance of the medieval mound at the far end of the range and a thought came to her suddenly out of the past.
We never went there, after all! She remembered, recalling an aborted Good Friday family trip to walk to the summit. And I never went there, ever. But I know exactly what the view is like from the top.
There was a large stone at the side of the path and Maggie sat and closed her eyes, recalling the view she had never seen. It was clear, but there was something not right about it. She saw in her mind across the Channel to the Exmoor hills, the Brecon Beacons behind, and an uninterrupted view inland up towards Gloucester where the Channel narrowed to the river, with a startlingly blue sky, much more piercing than today. The scene gave her an uncomfortable, panicky feeling.
Within minutes she was at The Pond. The Pond itself was elliptical and the path approached it from one end. To the right and at the far end the slopes of the mountain came down to the shoreline. Maggie saw immediately that it would be impossible to walk all the way round. The path ended at a small, broken, wooden jetty.
As she approached she could see that the jetty was rotten, several of the wooden slats were missing. One or two were sticking into the air. She was amazed that there was no barrier to the water’s edge, no warning signs. Perhaps not enough people come here. Or they just forgot it was here. This is not a pretty place. The Pond was certainly well hidden, and un advertised in local guides.
It was cold, although the slopes kept the wind out. Maggie reached the water’s edge and bent down to look in. There were a few large boulders under the water next to the end of the jetty. The newspaper report from 1883 had said that Esme Ellis had hit her head as she fell.
Possible. The girl must have been unable to reach the shore and had drowned, unconscious. She dipped her hand in, scooped up some water and let it run through her fingers. How terrible it must have been for Alice, seeing her friend like that. Hang on, how do I know that?
Something clicked in her brain and Maggie saw the story running through the dreams that her Alice had been shouting out for weeks. Ruth’s Alice had seen Esme dead in the water. But would that have made her run away from home? Alice seemed to have seen more than just a floating body. She had been shouting out No! and Stop! So, what had Ruth’s Alice actually seen, that Maggie’s Alice was dreaming about?
Instinctively, she turned to walk to the copse of trees behind her. But there were no trees, just flat barren land a few metres wide, leading to the slope. But she had seen them as she walked up the path! She walked rapidly into the centre of the patch of ground. There were a few
patches of grass and trampled remains of bluebells. Maggie turned and ran back down the path to the car.
Now, she had to face the graveside.
* * *
Despite feeling some trepidation as she approached the plot, Maggie walked determinedly to it. She had decided to try the same time as before, half past eleven. As she reached the tombstone she felt none of the atmosphere she’d experienced on previous occasions.
In case other people were there, Maggie had brought her secateurs, a bunch of flowers, and a jam jar, and she set about clearing the weeds that had grown back. Working under a cloudless sky she dug up grass and dandelions, humming to herself. This was the most peaceful the cemetery had ever felt to her. After twenty minutes the grave was tidy and she had placed her flowers in their jar in front of the headstone.
Glancing around, she was still alone. There was nothing left to do now and no reason to remain. In the distance a clock chimed twelve. She collected up her things and turned to leave. At that moment, a slight breeze fanned her arms, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. The cloudless day had instantly become overcast, but she knew this wasn’t real. Then a voice whispered next to her.
“John. I am going to search for her. You will think I am letting you down. But I must go.”
Something brushed Maggie’s arm with the tenderest of strokes and goose pimples reared all over, yet the sensation was warm. Maggie put out her own hand in the direction of the headstone, rested her fingers for a second on the carved name and was met with a warmth that felt like she was putting her hand into sultry liquid.
“John, you must not deny me this, not after all this time! I have always needed to know.” She was pleading, yet firm.
“It’s not John,” Maggie whispered and felt the warmth withdraw. “Ruth. You don’t know who I am, but I know you. I’m your friend. I’m more than your friend, I’m family and I’m trying to help, please believe me. We will find out what happened to your Alice.” She sensed a sigh, then footsteps retreating from the graveside.
As soon as she got home she called Zelah to let her know what had happened.