Robert squeezed her hand again and then let go, bringing his hands together before him. He understood Tracy’s point of view. Arriving to a home in the dark, blood on the walls and floor and finding a screaming child covered in blood… It would be hard to step back and view it objectively, emotion was bound to be at play. Thankfully, Tracy had still been a good witness, recounting the events clearly and professionally. This coffee was for her to vent what was stirring within. She needed to talk it out. To release the burden of her experience by sharing it with someone else. Who better than a fellow cop? He knew from his own life the value of that connection, of feeling understood.
Robert just had to remember to keep to the facts himself.
He saw Tracy’s argument. And with Eloise’s mental state, could they be sure Jacob wasn’t next?
But Robert had interviewed June Lane. He had seen the light of honesty in her eyes and didn’t believe she was misrepresenting the events of the night. She’d found her sister singing Jacob to sleep, albeit covered in blood. No, Eloise’s grievance was with her husband. Robert didn’t believe she’d been a risk to the child. Even if the press were loving that particularly dark angle.
Regardless, June seemed a very practical and capable woman, a witness he could trust. Then again, so did Tracy…
He didn’t say any of this of course, there was no need. Tracy would come to peace with the night in time, right now she just needed support. It would be a shame for the force to lose her because of the trauma of this horrid night. The community had lost enough.
’The boy is safe now,’ he said instead. ‘Family Services were contacted and have done their routine visit. They agreed he should remain in the home with his aunt. It’s where he lived already and with close family, his everyday will be mostly the same. By their assessment he is happy and well, no residual trauma.’
‘Good,’ Tracy smiled weakly, ‘children are very resilient aren’t they?’
‘They can be yes,’ Robert said, though he cast his eyes aside. His years of service had shown him the lie in that belief. Children saw more, understood more than we liked to think.
‘I think in Jacob’s case he is simply too young to have understood any of what was happening,’ he said, hoping it was true.
‘Poor little pet. At least he has a loving family around him.’
‘That he does.’
Tracy drained the last of her coffee, took a deep breath. ‘I’ve taken up enough of your time DS Fields. But thank you. This,’ she gestured vaguely around the cafe, ‘this was really helpful.’
‘We all need it sometimes,’ Robert replied, ‘a coffee and a chat, outside of the office.’
‘Yeah,’ Tracy said, ‘I’ll be sure to remember that myself.’
‘And don’t rush the healing process. It takes time to get over a situation like Hiddley Drive. Be kind to yourself, ok?’
‘Ok, I’ll try to remember that too.’
Robert saw Tracy to her car and watched as she pulled out into traffic, beginning the trek back to Salcombe. He hoped he’d been able to offer her some relief and comfort. At least the case should go smoothly, their evidence was strong. For once they’d got the killer off the streets almost immediately. It was nice to have one go right for a change. Didn’t happen often in his profession. He’d take the easy win when he could. Slipping his hands into his jacket pocket, warming them against the brisk breeze of coming winter, Robert headed back to the office, his paperwork wasn’t going to do itself.
4: The Devil of Devon
The Orchard, an interesting name. A place to grow fruit. A place to heal ‘fruity’ people. Odd choice of metaphor for the psychiatric ward of St Bernard’s Hospital, Ealing, London. Housing a mere 20 ‘medium level’ patients on its female wards; the worst offenders, murderers, murderesses. All with unstable minds. The Orchard, sounds almost peaceful, Harriet mused. It’s reputation had nothing on the horror of Broadmoor, the men only facility famous for hosting some of Britain’s most notorious and depraved minds: Peter Sutcliffe, the Yorkshire Ripper; serial killer, Robert Napper; Kenneth Erskine, the Stockwell Strangler. Yet as Harriet walked through the heavy entrance doors, she felt her stomach flip. Not infamous, true, but still a place of darkness. A worn looking nurse dressed in blue checked Harriet in, telling her she had to leave her purse and phone but could take her folder of case files, and led her down a long white corridor to the interview rooms.
‘Wait here,’ the woman, Betty, said, indicating a chair by an empty table. ‘Ms Lane-Huxley’s nurse, Amelia Warren, will bring her shortly.’
Harriet settled herself. Soon the door swung open and a younger, but equally fatigued nurse with brown bobbed hair walked in, Eloise in her custody. Harriet rose in greeting. Eloise did not look at Harriet, just floated past the table and took her seat. Amelia gave Harriet a small smile and took up a seat just to the side of lawyer and client.
Harriet sat back down across from Eloise Lane-Huxley, age 32, the Devil of Devon; husband murderer, her client. She sat motionless, large blue eyes fixed on the white table between them. Pale faced in a cream shirt and black trousers, shoulders pulled towards her centre. She was a diminutive woman, thin fair hair, pale skin, a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She didn’t look like a woman who had been poised to kill her son, whatever the tabloids said.
Harriet cleared her throat. ‘Mrs Lane-Huxley, my name is Harriet Bell. I am a solicitor from Healy Lawyers in Exeter. Your parents have hired me to defend you against the case being made by the DPP.’
She paused, waiting. Eloise showed no sign of having heard her, eyes still focused on the table.
‘Have you everything you need here at The Orchard?’
Silence.
‘Mrs Lane-Huxley, Eloise, I am here to talk to you about the events of November 15th 2018. The night your husband, Grant Huxley, was murdered. You have been accused of committing the crime.’
Still no response. ‘I want to hear your account, in your own words. So I can begin preparations for the trial.’
Nothing.
‘Eloise, do you understand what you are accused of?’
Blue eyes suddenly flicked up, pupils narrowing as they focused on Harriet. Surprise lit Eloise’s face, as though she was noticing Harriet for the first time. ‘Oh, forgive me. So rude,’ she stammered. ‘I didn’t offer you tea. How do you take it? White? Sugar? Just a moment…’
She glanced around the room: clinical white walls, a single window overlooking the brown and cream exterior of the next wing, the fluorescent light’s harsh beam washing everything in cold, sterile tones.
‘I… oh,’ her hands fluttered elegantly before her as she mimed placing a cup and saucer down, then pouring from a kettle. She paused, face ashen, hands shaking and looked up at Harriet. A little embarrassed smile passed across her lips and she brought her hands to her lap.
‘So sorry, I… I sometimes, forget.’ She indicated the space around them, shamefaced and settled her gaze on Harriet, eyes open and clear. Harriet paused a moment, careful to keep her face neutral. How could one forget being in The Orchard?
‘Not a problem Mrs Lane-Huxley.’
‘Call me Eloise.’
Harriet nodded, ‘Eloise, can you talk me through the night of November 15th?’
Eloise swallowed, her throat bobbing nervously. ‘You have the transcript? Of the interview?’
‘I want to hear it in your words, Eloise. Take your time.’
Harriet sat, pen poised and waited patiently. Eloise shuffled in her seat, hands wringing on the table before her.
‘Well, it was a Thursday. I usually go for a walk on Thursday and June minds Jacob for me. June is my sister, she lives with me. When I get home, she goes to our parents for dinner.’
‘Every Thursday?’
‘Yes, every Thursday. So I know I don’t have to cook for two on Thursdays…’ She paused, confusion flickering over her face.
Harriet prompted, ‘Please go on.’
‘S
o I planned to take a walk anyway, bundle Jacob up, take Bella, she’s our dog. I love the sunsets. … But it looked like rain, so I decided to skip it and work on my crafting instead.’
‘Your crafting?’
‘Oh yes,’ her eyes lit up, ‘I make all kinds of things. Scrapbooks, tableaux, picture frames… anything. I was working on a felt photo book for Jacob’s 1st birthday… but I couldn’t find my scissors. I looked everywhere… and then…’
She looked down at her small hands, they began to shake. Harriet waited in silence. ‘And then June was screaming at me, pulling Jacob away from me and pushing me through the house, into the bathroom. I didn’t understand, so I tried to get around her, back to Jacob, but she wrapped herself around me. She was shaking, trembling. I hugged her back. That’s when I felt it. Sticky wetness. The blood. It was everywhere, all over June, all over me. My hands.’ She paused, opening and closing her hands before her, palms up. Her eyes pressed closed as she worked through the memory.
‘Then there was a woman, a large woman, standing in the doorway. I wanted to welcome her, but June stopped me. And then, there they were! My crafting scissors, on the bathroom floor. I went to pick them up and… everything went black.’
‘The woman was PC Tracy Berry of the South Devon police. She thought you were a threat. She knocked you out with her baton.’
‘Yes,’ Eloise said quietly.
Harriet flicked through some pages before her, ostensibly checking her notes, but really just giving Eloise time to settle. ‘Your sister gave evidence to the police that she had been in Salcombe dropping her car off to be fixed. She caught the bus home and found you in Jacob’s bedroom, you and your son covered in blood.’
‘Yes.’ Eloise had gone even whiter.
‘She says she ran to you, thinking you were hurt and dragged you into the bathroom. Then the police came and you dropped the scissors on the floor. You don’t remember holding the scissors?’
‘I, I don’t remember anything but June screaming and then seeing the scissors on the floor.’
Harriet nodded, ‘You know Mason Simons?’
‘Yes, she works at the Beesands Hotel. Where Grant stays when he visits.’
‘Miss Simons says she saw you walking along Beesands beach wall at around 5:30 p.m. that evening, watching the water. She was setting the dinner room, and the sky was darkening. But you say you skipped your walk because of the weather.’
‘I, well, I mean, yes I planned to skip the walk…’
‘Planned to?’
‘I, I remember deciding not to go for a walk. But the police say I was seen in Beesands, so I must have changed my mind.’
‘Could it have been someone else local? Not you?’
‘Only my sister really looks like me…’
‘But she was on a bus coming back from Salcombe.’
Eloise stared blankly at Harriet. ‘But it was Thursday… she has dinner with mum and dad.’ She broke off, looking flustered and confused.
Harriet tried a different tack, adding some detail from Mason’s statement to see if it prompted a memory. ‘Coming back to the walk. Miss Simons says you were alone. No dog or baby. Just you. She said you looked cold. She didn’t see you leave, she was called away to work. So if you were there, on the beach, who was looking after Jacob?’
Eloise looked at Harriet, face stricken. ‘I, I don’t remember. I don’t remember being there. I don’t remember leaving Jacob, or walking to Beesands. I don’t remember seeing Grant. I don’t even know why he was there!’
‘Pardon me? What do you mean, why he was there?’
‘It was Thursday. Grant comes down after work on Fridays, stays until Sunday evening, so he can spend the weekend with Jacob and me. We are,’ a swallow, ‘we were working at getting back together.’
‘So you didn’t know he would be at the hotel that night?’
‘No, I wouldn’t have expected him until Friday.’
Harriet paused, scanning her notes. ‘The blood report confirms the blood that was found on you and June, and the scissors, was that of Mr Huxley.’
Eloise gulped, eyes wide.
‘Can you explain how the blood came to be on you, your sister and the scissors?’
‘I… No, I just, I just don’t remember. I hear what you are saying, that I was seen at Beesands, coming home. That the… blood, was Grant’s. But, Ms Bell, I just don’t understand. I don’t remember being there. How could I walk all that way, how could I do that… how could I not remember?’
‘That, Mrs Lane-Huxley, is what I aim to find out.’
The two women sat in silence a moment, each in their own thoughts.
‘So, what happens now?’ Eloise asked.
‘Now we wait. The Prosecution is putting together its case. Once I have their evidence I can review and plan our case. For now we should consider Barristers to present your case in court. One I highly recommend is Randell Dawes QC. I can’t guarantee he will be available, but his experience…’ Harriet stopped, Eloise was no longer listening, her gaze had drifted back to the window, her body slumped forward.
‘Eloise?’ Harriet prompted.
There was no light of acknowledgement in Eloise’s eyes. In fact, there was nothing in her eyes at all.
The young nurse came forward and placed her hands on Eloise’s shoulders, moving to look into her patient’s eyes. A small crease marred her brow.
Turning to Harriet she said, ‘I’m sorry Ms Bell. She’s having one of her turns.’
‘Turns?’
Amelia blushed prettily. ‘The wrong term, it’s true. Eloise is prone to moments of amnesia. She blanks out for a while. It’s mostly fleeting, like when you first arrived. But right now I think she’s gone deeper. It seems to be related to stress… but we are still observing.’
‘Right,’ Harriet nodded. ‘Well, I guess that’s that then. When do you expect to have the preliminary report on her condition?’
‘That I can’t say. Doctor Taylor handles the complex cases. But as soon as the report is ready it will be sent through.’
Yeah, to the DPP. Harriet suppressed her aggravation. This young nurse was not responsible for the ways of lawyers, it wasn’t professional to express frustration in front of her. Harriet would get to see that report, but it grated that the prosecution had first access, even if it just was the way of things.
‘Well, I will leave you to her care. Thank you for your time, Ms Warren.’
The nurse nodded gently and turned her attention to Eloise. Harriet, gathering her documents, watched as Amelia helped Eloise to her feet, and, one arm about her shoulders, guided her towards the door. Eloise’s pupils were large and dark, almost swallowing the blue of her irises, her face slack, arms loose at her sides. They passed Harriet.
‘Until next time, Ms Lane-Huxley,’ Harriet said.
Not even a flicker of reaction crossed her client’s face.
‘Good afternoon Ms Bell,’ Amelia said.
Harriet followed them out of the door watching a moment longer as Eloise shuffled slowly down the long, brightly lit corridor.
She looked so fragile, so vulnerable. A sense of unease began to roil in her gut.
A murderer? She frowned and headed for reception to collect her things.
Walking out of The Orchard, Harriet mused to herself on just how oddly comfortable she’d felt when talking with Eloise. It definitely wasn’t the case that she was comfortable in The Orchard itself. She’d been in her fair share of prisons to work with clients, so it wasn’t the restrictions of the place, but something about the ward set her senses on high alert, despite the sober calm of the staff. No, she was comfortable with Eloise. Her warmth and open face. Harriet didn’t know if she’d ever met someone who felt less like a devil in disguise. A strange murderer, educated, from a good family. Eloise really didn’t fit the expected mould.
Shaking off the strange feeling that emanated from the back of her mind, straining to be acknowledged, she began the two hour drive back to Exeter.<
br />
December
5: It's a family thing
Harriet closed the door to her apartment on Denmark Road, Exeter. Kicking off her heels in the hallway she padded to the fridge on stockinged feet. Outside was the deep dark of winter nights, the chill of the air held at bay by the apartment’s boiler. Harriet pulled a bottle of chardonnay from the fridge and stuffed two slices of bread into the toaster. Popping the top of the bottle she poured herself a generous glass before cracking open a tin of baked beans, pouring them into a bowl and microwaving them for two minutes. Leaning against the kitchen bench she took a long deep drink of the wine. The toast popped, the microwave beeped. Harriet assembled her beans on toast, and, wine bottle tucked in the crook of her arm, walked to the dining table against the wall. Pushing aside mounds of paperwork, folders and legal reference books, Harriet placed her plate on the table and sunk into a seat. Sipping from her wine she opened her laptop and began browsing through her emails. 53. I take one afternoon out, she thought. Harriet sighed and closed the laptop, leaning back in her chair. She’d deal with the backlog later.
For now all she could think about was Eloise Lane-Huxley.
Such a small woman, frail in fact. Those big blue eyes were heart breakers for sure. To think she had taken up a pair of crafting scissors and stabbed her husband to death, 14 times no less and slit his throat. Crazy. She seemed so, gentle.
The past weeks of working the case had only made the disconnect stronger. Something tugged at the edges of her mind, but she couldn’t yet put her finger on it.
Frustrated after yet another meeting with Eloise had ended with her client’s eyes staring off into oblivion, rather than returning to the office, Harriet had called up her uni friend Phoebe Giles and the two had met for coffee on Market Street.
‘I don’t know Phebes, something just doesn’t feel right,’ Harriet lamented.
Phoebe had sipped from her coffee mug, eyeing Harriet over the rim. ‘When did you last have a night out?’
The Unsound Sister Page 3