The Judge's Daughter (34 page)

The dog scratched an ear.

‘Not all of it, no,’ Helen replied. ‘But I shall be cooking on Christmas Day, so that’s a big list. Kate will rest. She’s on the guest list—’

‘Another list.’ Louisa laughed.

‘Yes.’ Undismayed, Helen continued. ‘And we shall eat in the kitchen – I’m not keen on the dining room.’

The dog woofed.

‘Yes, you’ll get the leftovers.’ Helen patted his head. ‘This will be our last child-free Christmas – let’s make the most of it.’

Agnes was certain that Helen Spencer was looking forward to the births of the two babies. Gone were the days when she feared being ousted by the new addition to her household, while the arrival
of her niece or nephew was anticipated with pleasure displayed in the form of concern for Agnes and gifts for the nursery. But what was she up to this time? ‘Are you sure he won’t be
here?’

‘Our father who will never be in heaven?’ Helen, who had stopped going to church, had got into the habit of referring to her father in biblical terms that were not far short of
heresy. He would be Lazarus without resurrection, a shaven Samson, the stunned Goliath, Moses minus tablets, Judas at the feast – but not at this feast. ‘He won’t be
here.’

‘Are you really sure?’

Helen shrugged. ‘We haven’t done Christmas for years. When I was little, someone would stay in the house to give me my presents – a servant, a nanny – anyone who would
agree to do it for a bit of money. Since I grew up, I have spent all my Christmases alone.’

A tear pricked Agnes’s right eye. Christmas had always been magical for her. Stocking filled with tiny toys and nuts, always a surprise in the toe. One year, the surprise had been a little
silver ring – she had outgrown it years ago. Downstairs, there would be a doll, or a toy sewing machine, several books. Dinner was chicken, as turkey could never be afforded. Her father would
have had a good dinner, she supposed. But not with Helen, never with his own daughter. ‘I had lovely Christmases, Helen. I wish you’d been there then. There wasn’t a lot of
money—’

‘But there was love,’ Helen finished for her.

‘Yes.’

‘Mr and Mrs Grimshaw will come, I hope. And Mags with Harry. We’ll be merry if it kills us. Of course, we can’t play cards, because my stepmother cheats.’

Louisa clouted Helen with a newspaper. ‘I came up in the school of hard knocks.’

‘As did I,’ Helen said. ‘Money, but no love. This party is for all of us, so that I can show my gratitude to those who have helped turn my life around. The loyal toast will be
the Queen, the Duke of Lancaster and Mabel Turnbull. She knew loyalty.’

Agnes shivered. There was no point in asking Helen to reveal in its entirety the document she had read, because such a request would receive no more than a polite refusal. The automatic response
had been delivered many times – Helen remained as secretive as ever. ‘Do we bring anything?’ she asked.

‘Just yourselves.’ Helen smiled at her sister. She, too, wished that those long-ago Christmases could have been spent with Agnes. ‘I wonder how many of us there are and whether
we are all female,’ she said, almost as if speaking to herself. ‘There could be dozens of little Spencers spread across the northern circuit. He’s a rake, but I am the shovel that
will dispose of him.’

A heavy silence rested on the shoulders of Agnes and Louisa.

Helen laughed. ‘Don’t look so glum. I am speaking metaphorically, of course.’

Agnes was not sure, would never be sure. She changed the subject. ‘Your doll’s house is almost ready,’ she told Louisa. ‘Even the cellars are included. He’s
charging your husband a fortune for it, says it will allow him to charge less when it comes to ordinary folk.’

Louisa shook her head. The doll’s house was not for her – it was for the proud owner of the house on which it had been modelled. ‘It will be kept in the hall,’ she said,
‘so that everyone can see what a wonderful home the judge has.’

‘He never has visitors,’ said Agnes. ‘It’s for himself.’

‘Isn’t everything?’ Helen stood and walked to the door. ‘I declare this meeting of the NPA party closed. Unless there’s any other business?’

Louisa raised a deliberately hesitant hand. ‘Please, miss?’

‘Yes?’

‘Will somebody get Oscar off my foot? The toes have gone dead – he’s cut off my circulation.’

Helen whistled and the dog dashed to her side.

‘Thanks.’ Louisa stretched her legs and counted her feet. ‘I seem to have two,’ she said.

‘Don’t brag,’ quipped Helen. ‘You’ll soon have four.’ She left the room.

‘It’s a big thing, isn’t it?’ Agnes asked. ‘The thought of producing another human being, I mean. I’m not talking about the pain – it’s the
afterwards that frightens me. If a child is good and successful, they get the credit. If not, the blame is ours.’

Louisa was staring into the fire. ‘I won’t raise a child,’ she said quietly.

‘No. He’ll get nannies and nurses, I suppose. The judge, I mean.’

After several seconds, Louisa replied. ‘Yes. That’s how it will be.’ She leaned her head against the wing of her chair and dozed.

Agnes waited until Louisa was asleep, then crept from the room. Across the landing, Helen was seated at a bureau in her bedroom, head down, right shoulder moving. She was probably continuing
with her book. Agnes left the author to the necessary privacy and silence.

Helen put down her pen, listened as her sister walked out of the apartment, looked down at the list she had made. Louisa was right – her stepdaughter was a maker of lists. The page she
currently worked on was one no one must see. Its subject was retribution . . .

Christmas Day was fine, but cold. The party, due to begin at seven in the evening, was delayed slightly by Helen’s over-ambition in the area of cookery. Her philosophy
was simple – if a person could read, he or she could cook. It did not run to plan. Six o’clock found her on the phone to her new sister. She refused to allow Agnes to fetch Kate,
because Kate cooked frequently in the kitchen of Lambert House, and this was one of Kate’s few holidays.

‘What the heck have you done?’ Agnes asked.

‘Crème caramel is my first problem. It’s in a bain marie and it’s as stiff as the bread board.’

‘Oh. Did you put water in your caramel?’

‘What?’

‘It’s probably stuck. You’ve got melted sugar acting as glue. Start again.’

‘There isn’t time.’

‘Cheese and biscuits?’

‘That’s the last course. We still need a pudding.’

‘I’ve an apple pie, half a trifle and some mince tarts,’ said Agnes.

‘Bring them. Bring everything. Bring hammer and chisel for this crème caramel. Bring the fire brigade and bring Denis. I am in a mess.’

Agnes replaced the receiver and turned to her husband. ‘Helen’s in a mess.’

‘Ah.’

‘What do you mean, “Ah”?’

‘She’s bound to be in a mess. Her doings with ovens stop at warming up what Kate leaves. I thought she was taking too much on. Game pie? When she told me she was making that, I
decided I wasn’t game enough for her pie. Too ambitious, she is.’

‘She needs us. Come on, shape yourself.’

He shaped himself and both entered the kitchen of Lambert House within half an hour. It was a war zone. The table was littered with eggshells and implements; the floor was in a similar state.
Helen was nowhere to be seen. Denis sighed. ‘She’s got herself in a right pickle this time, Agnes.’

The woman in question crawled out from beneath the large table. ‘I’ve lost an onion,’ she pronounced.

‘Does she know her onions?’ Denis asked.

Agnes shook her head. ‘Probably not. She’s likely lost a cauliflower. Perhaps she calls a cauliflower an onion—’

‘A spade a lawnmower?’ asked Denis helpfully.

The mistress of the house struggled to her feet. ‘Shut up, both of you. My consommé is lumpy, the beef’s still rare enough to be saying moo and you’ve got the pudding, I
hope.’

‘Yes.’ Agnes placed a basket on the table. ‘Right – stock cubes?’

Helen waved in the direction of a cupboard.

‘I’ll do imitation French onion soup – if you can find the onion. Denis – clean up and sort out the puddings.’ She glared at Helen. ‘You can just bugger off.
Where’s the game pie?’

‘In the pigswill bucket.’

‘Good. So it’s pretend French onion soup, roast beef with Yorkshires and veg, then leftovers for pudding, followed by cheese.’ Agnes cast an eye over Helen. ‘You
haven’t managed to ruin the cheese, by any chance?’

‘The cheese is fine,’ said Helen before stalking out of the arena.

Agnes and Denis looked at each other and burst out laughing. It was one of those rare and precious moments in life when laughter takes over, when the body becomes too weak to fight hilarity.
They cobbled together a meal of sorts, each working hard not to surrender to mirth all over again. It was an image worth remembering, thought Agnes. With flour on her nose and in her hair, Miss
Helen Spencer had looked every inch the angry housewife. It had been fun.

The party started well. Eva, suitably impressed by her first taste of ‘foreign’ food, sipped politely from her soup spoon. Agnes, who had made the soup from half a
dozen stock cubes and three onions, almost suffocated on her own spoonful. Helen pretended to glare at her. ‘Careful,’ she warned. ‘You’ll choke.’

Denis proved the worst. His silliness took him further than his wife was willing to travel. ‘Helen?’ he said.

‘Yes?’

‘You’re a good cook. This is lovely soup.’ The word ‘soup’ emerged slightly crippled, because Agnes kicked him under the table. With the air of an injured angel, he
continued to enjoy his strange food. ‘Are we having that game pie?’ he asked, his face framed in innocence.

Agnes kicked him again.

‘I decided on beef,’ replied Helen.

‘Good.’ Fred Grimshaw slurped another mouthful of French onion. ‘If I see another turkey butty, I’ll scream.’

Agnes laid down her spoon. She had taken enough of her Oxo cube and onion. ‘Shall I check the beef and Yorkshires, or will you, Helen?’

‘Thank you. You do it.’

Agnes escaped to the far end of the room. Lucy and George, too polite to say much, were looking at each other in bewilderment. Mags and Harry had eyes only for each other, while Louisa,
determined to eat anything and everything in sight, scooped up her soup without comment. It was Kate who broke the silence. ‘This is nobbut Oxo with an onion in it,’ she exclaimed.

Thus ended the charade. ‘Out of the mouths of babes and servants,’ Agnes muttered from the safer end of the room.

The story was told by Helen, who was prompted all the way by Denis. Kate hid her face in her napkin, her shaking back betraying uncontrollable glee.

George stood and pushed thumbs under his lapels, voice imitating that of the judge at whose table he was dining. ‘The defendant must stand,’ he ordered.

Helen stood.

‘Before I pass sentence, may I say how dim a view I take of plagiarism. You have stolen the work of another woman and have passed it off as your own.’

‘Yes, m’lud.’ Helen’s tone was suitably subdued.

‘Have you anything to say before sentence is passed?’

‘Yes, m’lud.’

‘Very well.’

Helen inhaled deeply. ‘I do not know my onions, m’lud. Nor do I know my bain marie from my elbow, if your lordship will permit so bold a statement. I am but a poor serving girl with
no brain, no hope and no pudding.’

George smiled at Lucy, composed himself and carried on holding court. ‘Your sentence will be three years in the Cordon Bleu Prison, Paris – which is in France.’

‘Yes, m’lud.’

‘This is one of the worst cases I have tried. Yes, it has been very trying. Compensation will be made to every person who has suffered as a result of your French onion soup and you will
pay all costs pertaining to this case. Mrs Agnes Makepeace will no doubt take her own measures via litigation. All rise.’

They rose.

‘This court is closed.’

They sat.

A shadow in the doorway became flesh. Judge Zachary Spencer walked into the kitchen. ‘Very funny, Mr Henshaw,’ he said.

Oscar, who had been sitting hopefully by the table, shot out of the room. He didn’t like the big man. Nobody liked the big man.

George blushed, but made no reply. Lucy spoke in his defence. ‘It was just a bit of fun.’

‘Quite.’ Judge Spencer looked at all the people in the room. A mixed bunch, they represented most levels of society, and they had been having fun at his expense. He had paid for the
food; he was also the subject of mimicry. It occurred to him that he was the outsider, that he was condemned to look at life through tinted glass. He was alone, had always been alone.

His daughter – the real one – had managed to carve out a niche for herself. She sat among Henshaws, Makepeaces and others, seemed at ease with them and with herself. Well, she had
been at ease before noticing her father. Now, she was staring at him with naked loathing in her eyes. He ignored her, walked into the kitchen, kissed his wife on the cheek, then left the room.

Silence reigned, the quiet interrupted only by the over-enthusiastic slamming of the vast front door. ‘He’s gone,’ breathed Lucy. She no longer feared that Helen might be
untrustworthy; Lucy realized at last the poor woman was the product of a brute and that Helen deserved better.

‘I wonder what he wanted?’ asked Louisa.

‘A good kick up the backside.’ Fred answered for everyone present. ‘Is that blinking beef ready yet? We’re all dying of hunger.’

He drove at a furious rate in the direction of Manchester. After travelling so far just to visit his wife, he had found her ensconced with all kinds of idiots in the kitchen.
In the kitchen? What on earth was Helen thinking of ? There were servants at the feast, there was George Henshaw trying to be clever with his impertinent imitation of the man who owned the very
table at which he was eating. ‘Preposterous,’ he spat.

The club was tedious. This year, only a handful of geriatric widowers and bachelors were in residence, most of them deaf, some in their delinquent dotage. There was no one to listen to tales of
interesting cases, no one who was capable of enjoying a sermon on the legal system. He was bored.