The Shape of Darkness

by Laura Purcell

  So the paper inferred, but Agnes is not convinced. Miss West could have no agenda against her at the time Mr Boyle and Ned died. She could not have set out to entrap Agnes: the animosity the newspaper wrote about came afterwards.

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ Simon continues, ‘I would like to consult Miss West myself.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I consider it only right to apprise her of an arrangement I have made. I hope you shall approve of it, also. I have paid for Pearl to be simply interred at Walcot Gate. She deserves a dignified resting place. There will be a modest remembrance with her name and the date of her birth, if I can obtain that from her sister.’

  He is a good, good man. Her ribcage swells with the consciousness of it. ‘Oh Simon, that is exactly what I would wish. I did so worry about what would become of her.’

  ‘I am glad to have your approbation. Of course I shall attend the service myself, but I wonder …’ He gives her a long assessment. ‘I should never ask a lady of your constitution to witness a funeral. But I would welcome your company on a visit to the grave, if you think you would be equal to it. The unfortunate girl will have so few mourners …’

  The cemetery rises up in her mind’s eye, dismal and crowded with row upon row of stone slabs. She always fancied the gravestones looked like teeth in the maw of some hideous beast.

  ‘The thought scares me,’ she admits. ‘And I am frightened of seeing Miss West, too. But I owe Pearl that much. I did not act well by that child, Simon. I used her for my own purposes.’ Her face flushes with self-consciousness as she adds, ‘I worry that perhaps … I have been using people like that my whole life: taking what I need and discarding them. It is my resolution to do better … much better, in the future. I mean to honour those who have always been so generous with me.’

  Simon swallows and turns away to face the wall.

  She is embarrassed. She had always assumed … But perhaps that is not the case. Maybe all his boyish passion is long since spent.

  Trying to break the awkwardness, she resumes, ‘I have not been a dutiful daughter these last few months. Mamma is one of the people I must try harder to please. I know you worry that seeing her will excite me, but do you think … I should so like to be reunited with my mother and Cedric for Christmas. Could they not come here, if you think me too ill to travel? I must see how poor Cedric gets along. Is he quite recovered from his accident?’

  Simon clears his throat. ‘I … I am hoping to convey you to them both very soon.’

  ‘Before Christmas, Simon?’

  ‘If you wish it.’

  Something has altered. He seems more melancholy than when their conversation first began.

  His gaze is fixed upon a piece of needlework hanging on the wall: a sampler that Constance worked when she was young. There are the usual numbers, letters, trees and flowers, but the verse is idiosyncratic:

  Behold this piece my hands have made

  When I am dead and in my grave

  Morpheus whuffs.

  ‘Excuse me, Miss Darken,’ Simon says, shaking himself out of his reverie and moving towards the door. ‘I did not remark the time. I have patients I must attend to. Can I have anything else sent up to you?’

  ‘No, thank you. Only remember: my family together at Christmas. I shall hold you to that promise, Simon.’

  He gives her one last, pained smile. ‘I am unlikely to forget.’

  CHAPTER 35

  Agnes still thinks of it as the ‘new’ gaol, built along the lines of Pentonville Prison. The turnpike road to Bristol is just visible on the horizon; in the other direction, beyond the high walls, steam puffs from engines on the railway tracks. It is cruel positioning. The convicts must watch the world go by without them, continually facing boundaries which they may never cross.

  In the early years, there were rumbles about the prison management being too lenient to deter repeat offenders, but Agnes sees nothing of this. The gaol seems as cold and sterile as the interior of the Dead Room; from the morose demeanour of the staff to the harsh clang of metal doors that sets her teeth on edge.

  It is fortunate that Simon accompanies her, because without him nothing about this miserable kingdom would feel real. She is painfully aware of her throat, and a blockage within it like a wad of cotton. Every instinct recoils and urges her to run. But this is the last place a person can flee from.

  The visiting room is packed with desperation. Coarse, rough-featured women cling to the chaplain and must be prised off; another, more genteel-looking creature sits listening to a lawyer with her head in her hands. There is no prevalent age group. Agnes is surprised by the number of women older than herself. Villainy, it seems, is not something one grows out of.

  She thinks of little Pearl, who will never age now, and her empathy for the prisoners withers, replaced by a cool fury. If Agnes were to look in the mirror, she feels sure she would see the flinty expression of Constance staring back.

  The warden makes them sit in front of a small desk. The chairs are battered and unsteady; Simon’s squeals under his weight. She had hoped they would only be permitted to see the prisoners through bars; in this chamber, there seems so little standing between her and evil.

  Boots crunch on the floor beside them. A turnkey with a heavy brow hauls a prisoner to the opposite side of the desk; it takes Agnes a moment to realise that it is Miss West.

  Prison has sucked the glamour from her. Her flaxen hair is shorn and concealed beneath a cap; only a hint of her widow’s peak shows at the brim. She wears a dingy prison uniform that dulls the lustre of her eyes.

  ‘Strike me blind,’ she laughs as she is pushed into a seat. ‘You came.’

  Agnes cannot speak; contempt almost chokes her. The way the young woman leans back in her chair and crosses her arms is not just insolent, it is heartless. She is still putting on a show: the unrepentant sinner.

  ‘Miss Darken has called upon you, despite her ill-health, as an act of charity,’ Simon announces sternly. ‘And she hopes to encourage compassion in you likewise. Will you not admit to all your atrocities, Miss West? What about Mr Boyle, Mr Lewis and Commander Hargreaves?’ He spreads his hands. ‘Come, let us bring this awful matter to a conclusion. Give the bereaved families the comfort of knowing that justice has been served.’

  Miss West smirks at him. They have not been feeding her well. She looks angular and raw-boned. ‘Guess I might as well, eh? In for a penny, in for a pound. Seems better to hang for five bodies instead of two.’

  ‘Confession is not about—’ Simon begins.

  ‘I always wanted to be in the papers,’ she interrupts. ‘If they’re going to put me down as a killer, it should be a notorious one with loads of victims. What will they call me, d’you think?’ She mimics an aristocratic drawl. ‘The Mesmerising Murderess. I’d like that.’

  Finally, Agnes finds her voice. ‘They will not credit you with any powers whatsoever. You could not mesmerise the guards into releasing you, could you?’

  The pert expression is slapped from Miss West’s face.

  ‘Make sure to keep a civil tongue in your mouth,’ the turnkey barks to the prisoner. ‘I’ll be watching you from over there.’

  Keys chinking, she moves to a corner of the room. Her unflinching gaze swoops between the criminals, taking everything in. Those beady eyes have the authority here, not Miss West’s. The prisoner must sense this, for the air around her sours.

  ‘I wanted to talk to Miss Darken alone,’ she gripes.

  Simon straightens his posture. ‘You are fortunate that Miss Darken condescended to visit you at all. Her health—’

  Agnes lays a hand upon his arm. She needs Simon to remain nearby, but perhaps Miss West would come to the point sooner with him at a distance. Pearl always stressed how her sister hated medical men; much of this performance may be for his benefit.

  ‘Be so kind as to fetch me a glass of water, Simon. It is very close in here,’ she says, pressing his arm and giving him a meaningful look.


  The floor shrieks as he pushes his chair back. ‘I will ask the turnkey,’ he says, eyeing Miss West. ‘I will not let either of you out of my sight.’

  Miss West gives him a sardonic smile.

  As Simon paces out of earshot, Agnes feels her hatred bubbling up. There is no longer a need to appear ladylike and restrained.

  She rounds on Miss West. ‘How could you? What manner of depraved, filthy vermin are you? Pearl was a child. Not a freak or a doll for you to play with. A child. Your mother would curse your name.’

  The prisoner’s chin juts out. ‘You don’t know what that girl cost me,’ she says huskily. ‘She …’ With an effort, she masters herself. ‘She wasn’t so bleedin’ innocent. And she killed my mother. Killed her own father with a knife, too, before she ran away!’

  Agnes rolls her eyes. ‘More lies. You have good reason to believe me credulous, but it will not wash now. Come to the point. Why did you wish to see me?’

  Miss West does not appear to hear her. Her lips twist and wobble. ‘Tell me, was it … bad, at the end? Did Pearl suffer an awful lot?’

  Agnes remembers the rapt expression on the little face. She will not give Miss West that comfort; she does not deserve it.

  ‘Of what consequence is it to you? You hated the child!’

  ‘I did,’ Miss West agrees tearfully. ‘I did hate her! I wanted to get rid of her. But now she’s gone …’ She swallows. ‘I think maybe part of me loved her too. Just a bit. She was … I felt … Both. Love and hate. D’you see?’

  Reluctantly, Agnes nods. ‘Sisterhood can be like that.’

  Miss West cocks her head and considers her. Very quietly, she says, ‘I know what your sister did, Miss Darken.’

  Agnes’s flesh creeps.

  This must be one of Miss West’s tricks. Agnes reminds herself that the woman could have found an old newspaper report detailing the Accident, and decided to use it in one last desperate attempt to scare her.

  It is all smoke and mirrors.

  But it is working.

  Miss West leans forward in her chair. Her face is so close that Agnes can smell the fetid confinement of the cells. ‘I wish I’d been around when that scandal happened. My ma told me all about it. I could have blackmailed you about the boy – you and the quack both.’

  Agnes’s breath catches. ‘Cedric?’

  ‘The little bastard. Would have bled you dry trying to keep his origins secret. But what’s the point now?’

  She is too astonished to form words. How can Miss West possibly know about Cedric’s true father? Not one of the family ever breathed a hint in public about the real reason Montague had left. As for Cedric, he was considered a little premature, given the date of his parents’ wedding, but all records of birth and baptism clearly show Simon’s name.

  Yet somehow Miss West has managed to piece it all together. It would be dreadful if she revealed their shame now. Mamma’s heart would not take it, Cedric’s prospects would be blighted and Simon … Poor Simon would have married Constance for nothing.

  ‘Please—’ she starts.

  ‘That’s why you’re here, since you asked. I wanted to tell you all about my life, before I hang. I wanted you to know what you’ve brought me to.’ She points a finger. ‘Yes, you. You can sit there in your fancy clothes and call me vermin, but I wouldn’t have done any of it if it weren’t for you and your bloody sister.’

  Agnes stares at her, bemused.

  ‘Uncle John might’ve helped us. My ma wouldn’t have married again if her brother were around to help. But he wasn’t, was he? He ran off back to sea before I was born, all broken-hearted and never came back. Ma told me he left over a quarrel with some stupid hussy named Darken.’

  ‘Your uncle …’

  ‘D’you want to hear the funny thing? Do you?’ Hysteria creeps into Miss West’s tone. ‘After all I did, trying to get that Burial Club money – guess what happened? He’s only gone and snuffed it!’ Her eyes blur and Agnes realises they are full of tears. ‘Left me a legacy. My beloved niece. Beloved my eye! He never saw me in his life! Thought I was still in London and his lawmen couldn’t find me, not until they saw my name in the papers.’ She gasps a terrible laugh. ‘It’s a bit bloody late now, ain’t it, Uncle John?

  ‘Good God,’ Agnes grips the edge of the desk. ‘Let me understand you correctly. Do you mean that your uncle was—’

  ‘My uncle’s name was John Augustus Montague.’

  The visiting room spins.

  He did mention a sister; only vaguely, the way he spoke of all his kin. She had married low, against her parents’ wishes. By Montague’s account, none of the family were ever close, which is why Agnes never sought them out.

  ‘But this means that you …’ Agnes searches the wicked woman’s face. There is nothing, no hint of the man she loved.

  Then it hits her like a blow to the stomach: Pearl.

  Pearl was Montague’s niece, Cedric’s cousin.

  She thinks the knowledge will rip her in two.

  Simon was right: Miss West has had a motive all along. That was why she tried to frame Agnes by murdering her clients.

  ‘You’re as useless and pathetic as Uncle John was,’ she snarls as Agnes falters for words. ‘You deserved each other. Shame your sister was such a whore.’

  The reappearance of Simon with a glass of water stops her from responding. Concern furrows his brow.

  ‘You look unwell, Miss Darken. I think perhaps it is time for us to leave.’

  She snatches the water from him and gulps it down. Nothing would please her more than to get far away from this poorly lit prison and the deplorable souls within. But this is her last chance. There is so much she needs to know.

  ‘Did you believe any of it?’ she bursts out. ‘The Spiritualism, the Mesmerism?’

  Miss West blinks. ‘Well the Mesmerism worked on Pearl, didn’t it? It’s a tool. The doctor can tell you – even they know that much.’

  Before Simon can retort, Agnes carries on, ‘But the ghosts?’

  ‘Pah! I wanted to.’ Miss West rubs at her jaw. ‘Time was I would’ve given my right arm to talk to my parents again. I was desperate. So was Pearl’s dad.’ She shakes her head. ‘But it didn’t work. So I took that desperation, and I used it. Got to thinking how much other desperate people would pay for a show.’ Her glance slides to Simon. ‘Because people are stupid, aren’t they, Doctor?’

  A bell rings. Turnkeys come forward and the lawyers begin to shuffle their papers. Visiting time is over.

  ‘Miss West, I am burying your sister,’ Simon declares bluntly. ‘I should like to know her date of birth before I leave.’

  She remains silent. She looks tired, broken by the concept of a return to her solitary cell. Only when the turnkey comes and seizes her by the arm, ready to frogmarch her back to captivity, does she speak.

  ‘Look up my mother’s death in Bow. It’s the same date.’ She glowers at Agnes. ‘I want you to read her name. My mother. Clara Meers, née West, née Montague.’

  The last name lingers even through the clamour and the scraping chairs.

  For the first time in her life, Miss West has produced a genuine ghost.

  But before she can savour its effect she is gone, swallowed back into the dark bowels of the prison.

  CHAPTER 36

  Agnes expected Simon would speak to her as they made their way downhill towards the burial ground at Walcot Gate. She would welcome the distraction. It has been many years since she last visited a cemetery and her nerves are strung taught; she cannot decide whether it feels like she is approaching the gallows, or slipping out for an assignation with a lover.

  But Simon descends Guinea Lane with solemn determination. There is nothing unkind in his silence: he still shows her the attentions of checking his pace and occupying the side of the pavement nearest to the road, yet he offers no words of reassurance. Occasionally he eyes her, as a horse that might spook.

  Following the prison visit, he made Agnes spend more tim
e cocooned inside Constance’s room to ‘collect herself’. She kept abreast of the news with Mrs Muckle’s help. More speculation and dross surfaced around Miss West, and most of it wallowed in lurid detail: accounts of her soldier father’s death, although they could not agree whether it was in China or Afghanistan; reports of the debts Mr Meers left behind him in London when the family relocated to Bath; the amount of compensation granted by Livingstone’s Match Factory. Many conjectures were formed as to how Miss West could afford the residence on Walcot Street, none of which painted her in a chaste light.

  To think that such a detestable woman would have become her niece, had Agnes’s marriage to Montague gone ahead!

  The weather remains dry, if overcast. Labourers are taking the opportunity to visit the Darby and Joan public house for a dose of the holiday spirit, even though the holidays have not officially begun yet. After her forced seclusion, the men strike Agnes as particularly brash and noisy. Even her nose is sensitive – she can smell sewage on the air.

  ‘Are you well?’ Simon asks as she cringes against him.

  She nods, trying not to breathe in. He has told her she can see her family at last after they visit Pearl’s grave, and she will not give him a reason to go back on that promise.

  When they emerge near Somerset Buildings, the spire of St Swithin’s church seems to pierce the mutton-coloured clouds. There is the low hum of organ music from within, and women singing carols. It is impossible to hear them and not recall Miss West’s voice on the night of the first séance. How sweetly she sang, for a fiend.

  They round the church and progress further downhill through London Street. The place heaves and sparkles with the promise of Christmas. Holly, mistletoe and ivy please the eye through glass shopfronts; every man and his wife is trying to sell a turkey or a side of meat. There are wooden toys on display; hothouse oranges stuffed with cloves and the syrupy scents of a confectioner’s shop replace the sewer’s unpleasant odour.

  It feels strange to see the world carrying on in this manner while Pearl lies beneath the soil. Flush-faced servants haggle as if their lives depended upon plum puddings. She wishes she could tell them how trivial it all appears beside the death of a child.