The Judge's Daughter (30 page)

After finishing the coffee creams, Helen walked towards her car. There had to be a way. Because she was going nowhere, while he, the big man, should go to the devil in whose company he
belonged.

Life settled into a routine of sorts after a while. Agnes continued to work part time at Lambert House, though she chose to be there only when the judge was absent. Through
Denis, she was able to predict Zachary Spencer’s schedule, thus enabling her to appear at Kate’s kitchen door when the chances of the man’s putting in an appearance were
minimal.

Louisa continued unwell while Helen, Agnes and Kate competed in an effort to find something she would eat, but the judge’s wife seemed to have slipped into a state in which she cared
little for herself. When reminded and bullied, she ate for the sake of her unborn child. Helen and Agnes watched the slow deterioration with concern – Louisa, the bright spark, the giggler,
was no longer resident at Lambert House; in her place, a pale, listless creature lingered, all hope gone, the light in her pretty eyes extinguished, her lust for life diminished.

Under a cloud of gloom, the other three women sat in Kate’s domain, a kitchen vast enough to house a whole family, beds included. ‘I can do no more,’ Kate grumbled.
‘Scrambled eggs, beef tea, nice soups – I’ve tried the lot.’

Helen stared into her coffee cup. ‘I warned her. It was already too late – they were married – but I told her what would happen.’

Kate nodded wisely. Forced by circumstance, Helen had found it necessary to include Kate Moores in her list of friends, because Kate needed to be aware of Louisa’s needs and difficulties.
The older woman blew on her coffee. ‘She’s not carrying well,’ she pronounced. ‘God help her if owt happens to that kiddy, because he’s hung his hat on having a
healthy lad.’ She glanced at Helen. ‘Your dad’s a bad bugger.’

‘I know.’

‘We all know,’ said Agnes. ‘But the main problem for now is keeping Louisa in one piece. Like me, she’ll be two pieces in a few months and she’ll need to be strong
to give birth and mind the baby.’

Kate stared into the near distance. ‘You should beggar off, Miss Helen. Get gone and take her with you, because she’s not the woman he brought home. You’ve that bit of money
your mam left – get some out of the bank and use it.’

Helen half smiled. ‘Where could we hide from him? No, he would seek us out even if we went to Mexico. Judges have long arms.’

Agnes blinked a few times. ‘Look, if you could just get her away for a few weeks, it might make all the difference to her attitude and her health. Tell him you’re definitely taking
her away. He’ll hardly notice anyway – too busy trying to learn to drive that damned boat.’

‘Yacht,’ said Helen. ‘If you call it a boat, he goes purple.’

‘We’re serious, Miss Helen.’ Kate patted her hairnet, pushing a stray strand of iron-grey hair into the mesh. ‘Just go.’

‘He’ll bully you if I just disappear. I can’t do that to you, Agnes and Denis.’

Kate snorted. ‘I’m not frightened of that great lummox. I reckon if it came to the shove, my Albert and Agnes’s granddad could give him a good hiding.’

‘Never thump a judge.’ Helen looked at her hands. She hadn’t played the piano in weeks, hadn’t written a syllable, had given up trying to read to Louisa, whose sole aim
in life seemed to be constant sleep. ‘If anyone hits him, he’ll send that person down for twenty years. I’ve served thirty-two years of my sentence and—’

‘Then give yourself time off for good behaviour.’ Kate refilled Helen’s cup. ‘A month or two could make a big change to that poor girl up yon.’ She pointed to the
ceiling. ‘Take a chance. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going, then, if we are asked, we won’t be lying if we say we’ve no idea.’

Agnes gazed steadily at Helen. There was something different about her, something new. ‘The dream?’ she asked.

‘Gone,’ was the reply. ‘The whole situation has righted itself.’

Both women knew that Helen Spencer had spoken the truth. She was calm – almost cold. There was a new set to her shoulders – the slight roundness had disappeared, while her eyes no
longer betrayed sleeplessness or troubled nights.

‘Did that head doctor help?’ Kate asked.

‘Partly, yes. The pills from the hospital helped me to sleep at night. But Dr Small wasn’t the whole answer. That came from a totally unexpected source.’

The housekeeper and Agnes waited, but no further information was forthcoming. Helen, her mouth set in a determined line, made up her mind there and then. ‘I shall take Louisa to the sea
and I shall tell him where we are. If it’s for the good of her health and for the sake of his child, he will have to agree. Before you ask – yes, I am still afraid of him. But because
of . . . oh, never mind . . . I am now in an even better position to stand my ground.’

Kate snorted. ‘Good luck. You’re going to need it.’

‘If I am sure of your safety,’ Helen told Agnes, ‘then I can be stronger. We must all cease to show fear of him – keep it hidden, keep him guessing. If we can do that, he
will leave us alone. He needs to be in charge, needs to translate fear into respect. His weakness is that he needs to believe himself to be respected in spite of . . . in spite of all he has
done.’

Agnes swallowed hard. It had happened. The dreams were no longer necessary, because Helen had the truth at last. From where, though? Had she travelled all the way in her sleep, had she woken
with the full story in her head? Or had Mabel Turnbull died? To whom had that letter been addressed? ‘I’ll come with you,’ she decided aloud. ‘Denis won’t mind. If I
pay for my own food, then—’

‘No.’ Helen’s face was alight with joy. ‘No, you’ll pay for nothing, my friend. I’ll be so glad of your company – and a holiday will do you good. Denis
will be glad for you, I’m sure.’

So it was decided that Kate would stand guard on the home front while Helen and Agnes looked after Louisa. Destinations were discussed before Agnes began the walk homeward. How cool Helen had
been, how sure of herself. She was a new woman, remoulded and ready to take on the world. But would she really manage her father?

In the cottage, Agnes removed her coat and picked up the phone. As she had expected, Mabel Turnbull had died two weeks earlier. The letter, she concluded, was now in the possession of Helen.
When asked by the matron for her name, Agnes terminated the call. It was over. Helen knew what her father had done and appeared to be dealing with it.

Denis agreed right away that a holiday would do Agnes good. ‘But don’t go too far,’ he warned. ‘I might get there for a weekend if it’s not at the other end of the
country.’

Agnes tried to imagine the scene at Helen’s house, judge in his chair, defendant standing on the carpet, his face reddening, hers white with nerves. But it had to be done. Louisa’s
life was in danger, as was that of the child she carried. Away from Lambert House, there was a chance that she might thrive once more.

Had Agnes taken her imaginings to the ends of the earth, she could not possibly have pictured the reality of that meeting between father and daughter. When Helen had said her
piece, Zachary Spencer, shaking from head to foot, could find no immediate reply.

‘What’s the matter, Father?’ she asked. ‘Did Oscar run off with your tongue? Don’t worry – Denis and Fred will look after the dog while we’re away. Oh,
and remember my warning – it includes the dog. Miss Mabel Turnbull was brighter than you thought. In all honesty, I can’t remember her face, but the letter convinced me that she had
been a part of the household all those years ago. So.’ She straightened her spine even further. ‘So, I, too, have written a letter. It contains Miss Turnbull’s letter to me and
the whole bundle is in very safe hands. That letter could ruin you for ever – we both know that.’

He gulped noisily, reached for his brandy. The letter would be with George Henshaw, of course. Had anyone other than Helen read it?

‘If I die, that envelope gets opened. Miss Turnbull’s letter, too.’

So, Helen had been the sole reader. After clearing his throat, he finally spoke. ‘Miss Turnbull was a nervous woman. She saw trouble where there was none.’

‘Really? That explains how clearly her story resembles the dream that haunted me for months. I was there.’

‘You were not three years of age when Mabel Turnbull ceased to be your nanny. She acted as housekeeper after that.’

‘Yes, and after you had relieved her of her virginity.’

The judge took another hefty mouthful of brandy. ‘That is neither here nor there. What else was in her letter? Not that anyone would believe her, of course.’

‘Then why have you paid for her upkeep since she left? Why did you pay the fees at the home when she got old?’

He lowered his chin and said nothing. For the first time in his adult life, he was losing an argument. His daughter was the only person who had defeated him. He needed to know the contents of
Mabel Turnbull’s letter, but he realized that he dared not ask. ‘Where will you go?’

‘Somewhere between Blackpool and Morecambe – not too far away, as Louisa is unfit for long journeys. We shall travel in my car. You will continue here as usual, I suppose.’

‘Don’t tell me what I will do,’ he snarled.

Helen clung to the edge of her courage. ‘There was a name in that letter, Father. There were several, but I recognized one of them immediately. Need I go on?’

He hurled the brandy globe into the grate. ‘Travel where the hell you like – summer is gone, anyway, so you have missed the best of the weather.’

She had never seen the best of the weather, because she had lived her whole life in the long, dark shadow of this man. Helen did not react to the smashing of the glass. ‘Bracing winds
might be just what Louisa needs. She did not enjoy the heat. A few weeks on the coast will do her the world of good.’

‘Leave my office, please.’

She walked to the door, placed a light hand on the knob, turned to look at him. ‘Isn’t knowledge a wonderful thing, Father? It’s power. All these years, you have presided over
my life like some ugly ogre, ill-tempered, unpredictable, devoid of all decent human emotion. It’s my turn now.’ She opened the door. ‘Go to hell,’ she ended clearly.
‘I am a match for you, because your blood runs in my veins, too.’

The trembling began as soon as she reached the main hall. Even now, she was terrified of him, because she knew that he was capable of acting beyond the reach of reason. It was all in the letter
from Miss Turnbull, a message written decades earlier when the woman’s mind had been young and clear. Judge Zachary Spencer was a self-created law. He embodied the book of rules, amended the
contents to suit himself, assumed that he was beyond the reach of other mere mortals.

Helen closed the door of her apartment and sank to the floor. What was she going to do? Not about Louisa, not about the immediate future, but in the long term. Her father knew the true law of
the land and might even escape the spectre of Miss Mabel Turnbull. But there were names in the letter. He had been a womanizer all his life and Miss Turnbull had watched the comings and goings in
Lambert House for years before leaving. When his first wife’s body had barely cooled, he had begun to share his bed with anyone who became available. After that, he had, for the most part,
amused himself well away from the house.

The rest of the message? She shuddered anew. Two facts had emerged, one of them terrifying, the other a mixed blessing. There was a great deal to be absorbed and she could take her time over it
while away by the sea. Helen now held her father’s fate in her hands; she was judge, prosecution and jury. His defence? There was none. Those twin facts from the nanny’s letter were
burned into Helen’s brain like brands on the skin of farm animals; from two pieces of knowledge, she had gleaned insight into herself. She was her father all over again and she was the only
person qualified to mete out his sentence. Judge Zachary Spencer was a marked man. And he knew it.

Lucy Henshaw, who still worked part time for her husband, looked up as a large shadow touched her desk. Irritated already by the complicated documents in her hands, she sighed
heavily. People who wanted to play at litigation were silly and made a lot of work, so— It was Judge Spencer. ‘Yes?’ she asked.

‘I need to talk to your husband.’

‘He isn’t here.’

He frowned. ‘Then I shall wait.’

Lucy shrugged. She knew the probable reason for the man’s visit – he would be looking for two letters, one written by his daughter, the other a legacy from Mabel Turnbull. Lucy knew
nothing of their contents; neither did her husband, but the firm was responsible for the safekeeping of Helen Spencer’s property. ‘Please yourself, sir, but he won’t be back for
hours.’

Yet another woman was standing in his way – well, sitting in his way.

‘Do you wish to make an appointment?’ she asked sweetly. ‘Or shall I get another of the partners?’

‘No.’

‘Is that a no to both suggestions?’

‘Yes.’ He walked out of the office, slamming the door in his wake. Lucy picked up her phone. George was having a word with builders at the barn, where, according to him, the
telephone was just about the only item in working order.

‘George?’

‘Yes?’

‘The judge has been and gone.’

‘Ah.’

‘Is it lodged with the bank?’

‘It is indeed. What was his mood?’

Lucy laughed, though there was no glee in the sound. ‘The same as ever, love. Bright, breezy, cheerful – need I go on?’

‘No. Tell me – what are we going to do about this damned fireplace?’

They talked about modifications to their new home, then Lucy returned to the original subject. ‘Does this mean that Agnes is safe, George?’

‘Safe as houses and a great deal safer than our barn.’

‘Good.’ She returned to her work, which embodied a silly quarrel about two feet of land at the rear of a pair of semis. Agnes was safe. Nothing else mattered. Two feet of land
certainly failed to enter the equation.

They stayed outside Morecambe, Blackpool’s poorer twin. It was quieter than Blackpool, with fewer shops and vehicles, but the sea was there, the air was clean and their
accommodation, a rented semi-detached house, was comfortable. The only cloud on an otherwise clear horizon lay in the knowledge that Judge Spencer’s yacht was moored well within driving
distance. ‘He won’t come,’ said Helen repeatedly.