Gillespie and I (39 page)

Of course, it was only a nightmare, probably caused by my visit to the doctor, yesterday, when he took a sample of my blood—but it was too frighteningly convincing, none the less. Indeed, my arm—where Sarah injected me, in the dream, and Derrett stuck his needle—has felt numb and heavy, all day long.

However, this horrid
cauchemar
seems to have reawakened some of my uneasiness about Sarah. I still find it hard to trust her, or take her at her word. My terrors, today, have centred on the birds: I worry that she might harm them in some way. Oh, how I wish that I had never entrusted them to her in the first place, for to relieve her of the responsibility now might risk provoking her: the very outcome that I am at pains to avoid.

Unfortunately, while on our trip to see Derrett, I failed to post the letter to the asylum. I had hoped to slip it into the box just outside the surgery, but barely had I set foot on the pavement before Sarah jumped out of the cab and paid the driver and then, later, on the way out, she had me firmly by the elbow. I shall have to sneak down to the pillar box across the road, at some point.

This afternoon—as a sort of curious experiment—I asked Sarah to dust all the pictures in the sitting room. I had it in mind to watch her while she worked, so that I could gauge her reactions when she came to flick the duster at the one that hangs above the mantelpiece. Would she gawp at it, like she did the other day, when I caught her unawares, perhaps? Or might she, albeit discreetly, treat it with some special reverence? At any rate, I told her to use the small stepladder, with the help of which she could reach the topmost edge of the highest paintings, and then I sat at my desk here, in the corner, to edit my memoir.

The weather was hot—not just hot, as it has been for weeks, but also extremely humid. Sarah, as usual, was dressed in far too many clothes for such sultry temperatures: heavy shoes, thick stockings, and a high-necked, long-sleeved housedress in a muddy shade, reminiscent (if one was being kind) of mulligatawny soup, or (if not) of cattle dung. The material was clingy and unflattering, and dark sweat stains were visible, across her back and under her arms. She dusted with deliberate efficiency, dragging the ladder from one picture to the next, clambering up one step at a time, and running the cloth over each frame with great care. It was simple enough to keep a covert eye on her, under the guise of correcting my manuscript.

There are about a dozen paintings in the sitting room, all of them framed simply; I am not, as a general rule, fond of over-elaboration. The one above the mantel has a delicate, ovolo moulding. Perhaps it was just a coincidence, but I noticed that Sarah left this particular frame until last. By that stage, she was breathing heavily. She mounted the steps, and then drew her cloth across the top of the painting, after which she wiped down the sides. Finally, she descended the ladder and flicked the duster along the lowest edge.

‘There,' she said. ‘All done.'

Was it my imagination, or had she been a little more cursory with this picture than the rest?

‘Have you finished that one already?' I asked.

She gave a strange laugh. ‘Yes, it wasn't very dusty.'

‘Oh? Well, thanks most awfully.'

As she leaned over to fold the steps, a drop of perspiration rolled down her nose and hung, briefly, at its tip, before dripping onto the hearth. Appearing not to have noticed this wanton cascade of bodily fluids, she simply picked up the steps and lurched away down the hall, leaving her spot of water behind her.

I crossed the room, and peered down at the small, greasy splat on the tiles. For a moment, I was filled with irritation. Why on earth did the woman not dress more suitably for this weather, instead of galumphing about in heavy garments, and sweating all over the place? In this day and age, when females wear practically nothing, why did she always cover herself, from top to toe, in high-buttoned blouses, heavy skirts, and long sleeves?

And then a thought struck me: something so obvious that it has been staring me in the face all along. Of course, I have always assumed that Sarah wears shroud-like garments as a way of disguising her weight. But, of a sudden, Sibyl Gillespie came to mind: Sibyl, who was permanently disfigured when she set herself on fire. According to the doctors, the scars on her arms and shoulders would be with her for the rest of her life. The thought that struck me was this: Sarah Whittle never bares her arms or shoulders—not ever.

V

November—December 1889
GLASGOW

16

In itself, the trauma of being taken into custody might well have affected my memory, but my arrest was not the only dreadful shock that I received on that chill November morning, back in 1889. Before our journey into the city was over, I was to hear tidings that horrified me yet more than my own plight: a revelation, from which I believe that I may never have fully recovered.

Having travelled from Bardowie in silence, I began to come to my senses just as we were drawing up outside the Western Police Office in Cranston Street. It occurred to me that I had no idea what would happen next: I might be locked in a cell, and kept in seclusion for hours; some other officers might assume responsibility for me; Stirling and Black could disappear, never to be seen again. Of a sudden, I was gripped by a desire to learn all that I could about my circumstances, and so I sat bolt upright, and addressed the policemen, with some urgency.

‘If you don't mind, I'd like to know exactly why I've been arrested.'

Constable Black paused in the act of opening the carriage door, with his fingers on the handle. Stirling cast a glance at him, then turned back to me. His mouth puckered up, doubtfully, at one side. After a moment, he spoke: ‘You don't know?' When I shook my head, the detective sat back in his seat. ‘Aye, well,' he said. ‘We found the body, you see, on Friday.'

I looked at him, startled.

‘It was just off the Carntyne Road, outside the town,' he continued. ‘A shallow grave—near an old quarry.'

I had a horrible feeling that I knew the answer, but found myself asking: ‘Whose body? Who?'

Stirling widened his eyes. ‘Why—Rose Gillespie.'

For a brief interval, I was so shocked that I was aware of no feeling at all: no anguish, no grief, only a strange sensation of numbness, of somehow being suspended in that moment of time. It had grown very quiet inside the carriage. The only sound was the creak of Black's boot leather, as he shifted his feet. He must have been impatient to get inside the police office. Perhaps he was cold. Or perhaps he wanted a cup of tea, or his breakfast. I thought of Agnes, back at Merlinsfield, and wondered whether she would have made my bed and laid the fires, as usual. Such were the banalities that passed through my mind. Strangely, I found myself considering the cast of my own features. I could sense that my face had frozen in a particular attitude, one that might be described as stunned. Tears had pricked my eyes, but they did not fall. For some reason, I could not imagine my expression without contemplating what Ned might think, were he present, staring at me, as the policemen were staring at me now. What thoughts would rush to his mind?

Oh poor Ned! And poor Annie! The horror of it! No doubt, this notion of my friends in torment was too much for me to bear because my thoughts flitted away to trivial subjects, less harrowing to contemplate: Constable Black, for instance. Did he take porridge for breakfast, or a morning roll? Who prepared it for him? And was he possessed of a wife?

Meanwhile, the constable had bent down to retie his bootlace. Stirling offered me a handkerchief, and when I shook my head, he returned it to his pocket, his eyes never once leaving my face. Perhaps half a minute had passed since he had told me the news about Rose. And still, I was numb. I told myself that, eventually, I would feel something. The pain would engulf me; perhaps even crush me; at some point, it would happen. Then, all at once, I flinched, as the door beside me flew open to reveal the driver, standing outside, looking impatient. A blast of icy air swept into the Clarence. Detective Stirling offered me his hand.

‘Shall we?' he said, almost kindly, and then he assisted me out of the carriage and into the building.

Thereafter, it is hard for me to remember much about the next few hours. At such times, the brain does not function as normal. I had been allowed to dress before we left Merlinsfield, but at the reception in Cranston Street, I believe that they took away my belongings, including some keys, my watch, and a purse containing a small amount of money. Various particulars were noted down, but what they asked me, exactly, I cannot bring to mind. I do have a vague memory of my height being measured but, now, this detail strikes me as incongruous, so perhaps I have invented it. I know that I was put into a cell: a small, dreary room, the stench of which would have sickened a goat. The door was closed and locked; and then, I was left alone.

I recall collapsing, on the ground, in a heap. Stirling's news about Rose must have propelled me into a kind of temporary madness for, as I lay there, on the cold, dusty floor, I felt an overwhelming pressure build up inside my head and body, and so great was this pressure within me, that it seemed as though I might implode, and disappear from the face of the earth. I would cease to exist: such was my state of mind that this unlikely prospect seemed entirely feasible.

Eventually, I crawled over to the bed, where I remained for—perhaps—two or three hours, weeping bitterly, at intervals. Loath to let the policemen overhear me, lest they should think that I was merely lamenting my arrest, I tried to smother these cries by pressing my face, hard, into the coarse blanket. All that I could think of was poor little Rose, and Ned and Annie, and how I longed to be able to comfort and reassure them. Every hour or so, I would hear the turn of the key in the lock, which gave me a few seconds to dry my eyes and recover my composure, before the door would open, to reveal a constable at the threshold, peering in, to ask if all was well. Presumably, he brought me food and drink, and, at some point, I was given a list of solicitors, and told to write a note, requesting legal representation, but of these events I have scant recollection.

In due course, I found that I could cry no more, and the sensation that I might implode or disappear began to recede. That afternoon, I was escorted to an interview room, seated at a table, and told to wait. The table was made of cheap boards, nailed together, the wood so soft that it was possible to mark it with a fingernail, and I passed the time by staring dumbly at the various words that had been scraped into its surface; not all of them were obscene. Eventually, Detective Stirling entered, along with another officer whom I had not previously encountered: a short-legged, curly-haired man with cold little eyes and an insincere smile. Stirling introduced him as Detective Inspector Grant. From this, and from Grant's relaxed demeanour, I gathered that he was Stirling's superior officer. His voice had a drawling, obstinate quality and—perhaps because I distrusted and disliked him on sight—I snapped out of my stunned state, and have a reasonable recollection of what transpired during our interview.

‘Now then, Miss Baxter,' Grant began. ‘This will be a blow to you, no doubt, to be caught and arrested for the plagium. But the child was found dead, in a shallow grave, so we know there's more to it than that—so you might as well just tell us the whole story, in your own words, and then we can keep this short. I know that you, in particular, won't want to appear foolish, by trying to bamboozle us, or by lying.'

This was his tactic: to imply that he was some sort of Delphic Oracle, well acquainted with me, my character, habits, preferences and aversions, and my supposed crimes. However, Grant was no different from most other know-alls, in that his words were mere self-important swagger; the reality was that he knew precisely nothing about me. One of the words that he had used was unfamiliar to my ears but, unwilling to make myself vulnerable, I declined to ask for an explanation.

Since I had not yet replied, he gave a dry chuckle.

‘I suppose you'll be finding all this very trying, Miss Baxter. After all these months, I know you must have thought you'd got away with it.'

Presumably, this conversational style of his was an attempt to fish for some sort of response. However, thus far, the only impulse that his every utterance elicited in me was the desire to slap him. That seems a shameful admission, now, but do bear in mind that I was grieving, and worried about Ned and Annie, and fearful of my own fate, and I am afraid that I found Grant's sly and unctuous manner insufferable. Stirling was gazing at me, calmly, across the table. When I looked into his eyes, something passed between us, and I would be willing to wager that he agreed with my low opinion of his boss. However, with great professionalism, he betrayed no exterior hint of this; he simply picked up his pencil and inspected the point.

‘Might there have been a mistake?' I asked. ‘Whatever poor soul was in that grave—might it not be—another child?'