Ann Granger (30 page)

She wasn’t, I thought, the most intelligent of beings. But she had tried to do what she thought was right by her man. I had to trust that a sense of doing what was right would prompt her to tell me the whole wretched business now.

‘When you came some months ago with your husband, on a previous visit,’ I said carefully, ‘you were with child yourself, is that not so?’

Brennan’s wife always travelled with her husband, so Greenaway had told the doctor and myself that first day, even when she was ‘carrying’.

She nodded. ‘I gave birth up on the heath.’

‘All alone?’ I asked, aghast.

She stared at me as if unable to comprehend my shock.

‘I done it before,’ she said simply.

‘What happened then?’ I asked.

‘The baby was sickly. After a couple of days, she died. So many of my babies have died, miss. I’ve buried six of them. I did hope, this time, this baby might live. But she died in my arms while Jed was away from our camp, and I sat there grieving all alone, as I thought. But then I realised someone was there and I looked up and saw one of the ladies from Shore House.’

‘Which one?’ I breathed, almost unable to get the words out.

‘Miss Christina, it was. She had been walking out on the heath. She’d heard me wailing and come to see what was amiss. I told her my child had died and I showed her.’ The woman paused and her brow crinkled. ‘I mind her words well. She said, “Your baby has died and my niece’s is thriving. I wish it had been the other way about!” That did seem a strange, unnatural thing for anyone to say, miss.’

‘It is,’ I said bleakly. ‘Go on.’

But I knew what was coming.

‘My husband came back just then. He and Miss Roche fell to talking together. They agreed…’

She paused again and wrapped her own arms about her body, beginning to sway back and forth. ‘’Twas a terrible thing to do, miss. But my man said, Miss Roche was rich and was willing to pay well for our dead baby. She meant to exchange it with the child her niece had been delivered of. Jed – we – should take little Mrs Craven’s baby to London. It could be done, she said. My milk had come in and I could feed her. When we got to London, we should give the baby into the care of a workhouse under a false name. She didn’t care which one. She only wanted it made sure no one should trace the child back to this place. And Jed, he said we would do it.

‘After Miss Roche had left, I told Jed it was a bad business and we would suffer for it. It was mortal wrong. Nor did I want to give up my dead child, just like that. But Jed, well, he just gave me a clip round the ear and said I shouldn’t be fussing. Our baby would get a decent burial and it not cost us a penny. He was a – a strong man, strong in his body and strong in his mind. There was never any arguing with him. He took our baby away that night late and came back, while it was still dark, with the other baby. He had told me to pack up and be ready to leave as soon as he got back, so I’d done that. We moved out straight away, even though it was still night. There was a moon, luckily, and we could see our way.’

She hesitated and gave me a shy, sideways look. ‘It were a nice little baby and smelled so fresh of good soap. I did ask Jed, when we were nearing London, if perhaps we couldn’t keep it, since ours had been taken. But Jed said he always did a good job, whether it was clearing rats or delivering a baby to the workhouse. He did what he was paid for. It was a kind of…’

She tailed off, her vocabulary lacking a suitable word.

‘A matter of principle,’ I supplied bitterly, as if that scoundrel could have been said to have had any principles.

But the phrase appealed to his widow. She brightened. ‘Yes, miss, that’s it! He always did what he’d said he’d do.’

‘And you took the baby to a workhouse?’

But she looked vague. ‘Not I, miss. We got to our place, where we lodge when we’re in London, Jed took the baby and went out. When he come back he didn’t have her any more.’

‘And you didn’t ask what he’d done with her?’

‘I daren’t ask, miss.’ She leaned forward earnestly. ‘But he set off to go to the workhouse and that was what he’d told Miss Roche he’d do and like I was saying, he was a man who kept a bargain. I did take good care of that little ’un while she was in my keeping, miss. I would’ve kept her if I could.’

I sighed but did my best to sound brisk and encouraging. ‘I’ll take you to Inspector Ross at The Acorn. Let’s hope he’s there. You must tell him everything you’ve told me. Don’t be afraid. Just tell the truth so that justice may be done.’

Unfortunately, when we reached The Acorn, neither Ben nor Sergeant Morris was there. Mrs Garvey told me she believed the police officers had gone to Shore House with Mr Roche; she had seen them all set out together.

I knew Ben and the sergeant hadn’t entered the house with Charles Roche, so somewhere along the way they had parted company. I thought that if I went back to the house I might meet them, so I gave Mrs Brennan into the care of Mrs Garvey. We arranged that the woman should wait in the snug, since that was given over to ‘police business’ as the landlady put it. Mrs Garvey would provide the woman with tea and something to eat and make sure she didn’t slip out.

I elicited a promise from Mrs Brennan that she would stay at the inn. She seemed to be exhausted, just nodded and whispered, ‘Yes.’ I thought she would do as bid. Like her late husband, she probably believed, in warped fashion, in keeping her word. Moreover, there was nowhere now that she could run. But as a precaution I murmured to Mrs Garvey as I left the inn, that perhaps William the potboy could be sent to find Constable Gosling and bring him to the inn as quickly as possible. With that arranged, I set off back to Shore House.

*   *   *

I wasn’t sure how long I had been absent, probably a good half-hour, as requested by Miss Roche. But I walked back far more slowly than I had done earlier. I wanted to find Ross and give him the news, but I needed to sort out what must have happened. I felt sick to the stomach when I thought of what might have befallen the baby, but I could not be worrying about that immediately. I had to have everything clear in my head before I could tell Ben what I had concluded.

The two figures talking together in the garden the first night must have been Brennan and Miss Roche. It had after all been Brennan’s terrier I saw. Brennan had come to report success in disposing of the infant, however he’d done it.

I had no intention of announcing my return and being sent out again. I walked round to the dining room where the French windows stood ajar and let myself in. At the foot of the stairs I paused to listen. Voices murmured behind the drawing-room door. I identified Lefebre’s, another male voice I fancied belonged to Charles Roche, and a decided female voice I attributed to Miss Roche. A fainter murmur must be Miss Phoebe. A young childish voice giving a sudden cry of alarm meant Lucy was there, too. They were all gathered. I had something to do and I would never get such a good opportunity again.

I hurried upstairs and along the corridor to the sisters’ rooms. My one fear was that Higgins would be in one of them, engaged in some sewing. But the upper floor was very quiet. Probably Higgins had joined Mrs Williams to discuss Charles Roche’s arrival. Gently I turned the knob of Miss Phoebe’s door. The room was in the front of the house. It didn’t receive the afternoon sun and appeared gloomy. I hastened to the massive wardrobe of polished walnut, its doors decorated with curls and swags very much in the French style, and opened it. An overpowering scent of lavender thus released made me stifle a sneeze. As quickly as I could, I worked my way along the gowns hanging there, listing the patterns in my head as the soft silk fabrics rustled between my fingers.

When I thought I had the patterns fixed in my memory, I shut the door and let myself out of the room. The corridor was still empty and quiet. I made my way to Miss Roche’s room, overlooking the garden and the sea view, and bathed now in afternoon sunshine. Through the window I could see how the sea rippled and hear how it slapped on the stones of the beach. A fresh wind had sprung up and sent the yachts scurrying across the Solent towards the harbours of the Isle of Wight.

I opened a wardrobe pair to the one in Miss Phoebe’s room, and began to search feverishly. The tartan gown was missing. The sisters had worn those gowns the day I had arrived and Miss Phoebe’s hung in her wardrobe.

My head swam and I leant my head against the wardrobe door. The flickering glow I’d seen on the beach on the night of the murder had come from the tartan gown as Miss Roche committed it to the flames.

There was the faintest creak behind me and a prickle of alarm ran up my spine. I was no longer alone. I turned slowly and saw Christina Roche standing in the open doorway of her room.

Chapter Twenty

Elizabeth Martin

THERE WAS no excuse I could give for my presence there. It was obvious what I’d been doing … and one look at her face told me that she knew only too well the reason why.

During my stay at Shore House I’d avoided Christina Roche’s disapproving stare. Now I couldn’t take my eyes from her face. My first impression of her on my arrival had been of a ship’s figurehead; this now returned even more strongly. Her jutting nose seemed carved from some hard substance, teak or marble, rather than fragile bone. Beneath it her mouth was pursed in disapproval not just for the present circumstances but permanently, the lips pressed to a thin line. The gleam I had observed in her eyes when they first set their gaze on me was now a glitter of hostility and contempt. As I watched, the expression cleared, and her eyes became flat opaque chips of dark grey, like fragments of slate. They were the closed portals not only of an unreasonable mind but also of unreason itself.

I had to say something. What came out when I opened my mouth (I wonder at it now) was, ‘I trust Mr Roche had a comfortable journey from London?’

Thinking back, those bland words seem the height of foolishness. But in fact, I couldn’t have chosen better. The sheer normality of my enquiry, its unexpectedness, and its total irrelevance to what I was doing in her room, took the woman momentarily aback.

‘Yes,’ she said curtly. ‘But you have not explained your presence, Miss Martin, or why you appear to be searching my closet.’

I had no intention of trying to make any excuse. I’d only end up stammering and appearing weak. Since battle couldn’t be avoided, I went on to the attack.

‘Does Mr Roche know,’ I asked, ‘what you did with Lucy’s baby? Does he know that Brennan took her to London and left her in a workhouse or, for all we know, in some back alley for anyone to find, or not to be found alive at all?’

‘This is nonsense,’ she said coldly, ‘a fiction. From where do you come by such an idea?’

‘From Mrs Brennan, who’s confessed everything. Sadly even she doesn’t know for certain where her husband took the child after reaching London.’

‘So,’ Miss Roche murmured, ‘you’ve found his wife. That’s a pity. If I had found her first, I should have closed her mouth.’ This was said without any threat in it, just as a simple statement of fact. The words were the more chilling for it.

I found myself blessing the fire Mrs Brennan had so clumsily started. It had forced her to leave her tent and flee to the gypsy camp. If she had remained in her original place, Miss Roche might have discovered her there, as she’d discovered her once before cradling a dead infant. Fate had led me to find the rat-catcher’s wife first, and I’d be forever grateful.

Unexpectedly, Christina Roche started forward. I couldn’t help but jump back in alarm. Her features worked uncontrollably and when she spoke the words were spat out at me.

‘How dare you criticise my actions! I did what was
right
! Should I allow that squalling brat to grow up and have a part in the Roche fortune? Should the scandalous circumstances of Lucy’s marriage be called to mind every time anyone set eyes on the child and remembered she’s James Craven’s daughter, conceived out of wedlock, and sired by a conniving, useless trickster? Is my niece even capable of raising that or any child? She is but a child herself and a silly one, full of moods and fancies, easily seduced by a wretch like Craven, unable to uphold the honour either of herself or her family name.’

‘It was an unspeakably cruel act to part mother and baby!’ I shouted at her. ‘Honour?
Honour
? Where’s the honour in any of that? To lie and pretend the infant was dead, to ignore the mother’s distress, to take advantage of a girl who, yes, is little more than a child and should, for that reason, be treated all the more sympathetically … none of these things can ever be forgiven or justified. You were driving her out of her mind! How could you even think of doing such a thing?’

Christina, taken aback at the vehemence with which I spoke, something she was little accustomed to hear when others spoke to her, blinked at me and looked momentarily nonplussed.

‘How did you manage it?’ I asked as calmly as I was able.

‘It was Providence,’ she said and her air of conviction returned. ‘Yes,
Providence
, Miss Martin! Neither you nor any other person can deny it. What else could have put me in the way of the rat-catcher’s wife that day on the heath? I was shown the way by some higher power and I merely followed the signs so clearly given. I’d sought out the isolation of the heath, space to think, to plan. My mind was spinning. I tried to imagine what on earth could be done, now that Lucy had been safely delivered of Craven’s child. How could I remove this blight upon our name? How could I protect the house of Roche from this interloper? Can you imagine how it felt when I found Brennan’s woman lamenting and cradling a dead infant? It was as if the clouds had parted and allowed the sun to shine. A solution, there at my feet! It was meant, I tell you! You cannot deny it.’

She was speaking ever faster, the words tumbling eagerly from her lips. Her eyes glowed with triumph. ‘Brennan was perfectly willing to aid me to exchange the babies. He assured me there would be no problem in leaving the infant at a workhouse in London. Why, unwanted infants were handed in at institutions of all kinds, public and private, all the time. He would declare he had found the child abandoned. Who would prove otherwise?