The Judge's Daughter (40 page)

Agnes took a sip of water. There was a ring of honesty to the letter and she did not doubt the contents for one moment. The handwriting was shaky, because the author had suffered pain in her
joints, yet she had laboured, possibly over a period of days, to get the letter finished. It was the absolute truth – of that Agnes was certain. The bit about her mother had cut her to the
quick.

There was no need to reread the few lines appended by Helen in the other envelope. Helen had confirmed Mabel’s statement and had explained about the nightmares and the amnesia brought on
by shock. But now Helen was afraid of these letters. She had depended on them for her own safety and security, but she now felt that their very existence threatened the well-being of an innocent
baby girl.

Birds began to sing. Agnes drew back the curtains and watched the dawn as it started to break. This was a time of day when wakefulness could be a burden, because the person who did not sleep
felt truly isolated and out of step. It would be a difficult day, since she was bound to be tired and edgy. But no – it was a George-and-Lucy day, so Denis could make his apologies, stay at
home and help with the baby, because George knew that Agnes had the letters and would be in some kind of shock. Agnes and Denis needed time together, as there was a decision to be made. Should they
go to the police and risk Helen’s wrath? Or should they keep quiet, just as Mabel Turnbull had kept quiet?

Sometimes, there was a very hazy line between right and wrong, Agnes thought. Pure right could be a terrible thing with dreadful consequences; wrong was often the kinder choice. A man who abused
his position should be punished, yet his punishment might affect the lives of people who did not deserve to be hurt. Denis wanted to go to the police. Agnes did not. The decision would be hers,
because Helen Spencer was probably her half-sister. But what was the right thing? Nobody wanted Millie to become the butt of jokes and snide remarks because her father had been the infamous and
murderous judge.

‘Agnes?’

She turned to her husband. ‘She’s right, Denis. Millie could suffer if all this came out. Poor old Mabel Turnbull was wasting her time, too, it seems.’

‘So we do nothing?’

Agnes nodded. ‘We can only make things worse by interfering.’ The charade had to continue. ‘Don’t go to work, sweetheart. Phone George – he’ll
understand.’

‘Spencer should be in jail, Agnes.’

‘I know.’

‘And the house is like a time bomb – something has to give. She’ll crack. He’s made her brittle and frail. God, what is the right thing to do?’

Agnes shrugged and smiled weakly. ‘The wrong thing is sometimes the right thing. This is one of the sometimes.’

The house had been built very cleverly, each room a section that slotted onto the room beneath. Even the ground floor lifted off to show cellars with boiler, coal store,
miniature wine racks and bottles. Fred was very proud of his achievement, though his delight was tinged with sadness, because the house had been made for Louisa, who had died giving birth to a
daughter. ‘Just like our Eileen,’ he whispered as he put some finishing touches to his work. The house would belong now to little Millie, so it needed to be strong and durable. He was
examining pegs and slots when the row began.

The replica of Lambert House, now in its permanent place of residence in the hall, looked wonderful. Absorbed in his work, Fred fought not to hear the raised voices of the judge and his
daughter. All families had differences that needed airing from time to time, and he was wondering whether to change the carpet in one of his rooms, since the real floor covering in Lambert
House’s library was in a lighter colour than the one he had used. It was hard to concentrate.

The volume increased. It was a pity that folk didn’t own wireless knobs, because they needed to be turned down a bit when a bloke was trying to do a job of work. The judge was yelling
about his retirement and his intention to spend time at sea. His daughter was urging him to stay at sea, as he would not be welcome here. She was also advising him to leave all lifebelts at the
moorings – she had quite a temper, it seemed.

If he varnished the tiny door handles, the brass would stay bright. Fred wrote that in his notebook. He was still waiting for a pair of lions couchant to arrive for the top of the front steps.
He had explained on television that he had been let down by a maker of miniatures – he wasn’t having folk think he did half a job. There were sets of moulds he might buy – rubber
contraptions into which plaster of Paris could be poured – perhaps he could make his own garden ornaments? Trees were easy – train set manufacturers made good trees and hedges.

‘This is my house!’

The old bugger was in danger of blowing a fuse, Fred thought. Like a pressure cooker, Zachary Spencer could do with a valve on the top of his head for the letting off of steam.

‘You’re not wanted here.’

Perhaps his daughter might benefit from similar equipment – she was more like her dad than she chose to believe.

‘I shall do as I please.’

It happened then. As clear as any church bell, Helen Spencer’s voice travelled through the hall to Fred’s ears. ‘You have three daughters. Me, you ignored to the point of
neglect. Agnes was raised by grandparents and Millie will be raised by me.’

‘Better if I had her adopted,’ shouted the judge.

‘No! Millie will stay with me.’

Fred stood as still as one of the stone lions. He blinked stupidly, then leaned for support on the huge table that bore the weight of his model. Agnes. Eileen. Sadie, God rest her. Spencer,
bloody Spencer. Dear Lord, let this be a lie.

‘Agnes knows,’ Helen was saying now. ‘She knows everything.’

Fred pulled himself together and left the house by the front door. He would not have another stroke; he would not weaken to the point of illness. Had anyone asked him about the walk from
Skirlaugh Rise to Skirlaugh Fall that day, he would not have had anything to say. Seeing and hearing little, he simply placed one foot in front of the other, all senses dulled by shock.

Without knocking, he walked into his granddaughter’s cottage.

Denis, who had taken the day off to think about Helen’s famous letters, stood up as soon as Fred came in. There was no need for the old man to speak, because the whole mess showed in his
face. ‘Fred?’

‘Where’s our Agnes?’

‘Hanging nappies on the line.’

Fred, whose legs were threatening to buckle, dropped onto the sofa. ‘How long has she known that yon bugger’s her dad?’

Denis swallowed. ‘Long enough.’

‘I’ll kill him,’ snarled Fred. ‘I might be old and weak, but I can wait till he’s asleep and—’

‘Stop it, Pop.’ Agnes, washing basket balanced on a hip, stood in the doorway between living room and kitchen. ‘Don’t make things worse than they already are,’ she
said. ‘There’s more to it – a lot more. He’s given us this house and Helen will make sure we are OK.’

‘OK?’ yelled Fred. ‘OK? Your mam wasn’t OK when she bled to death, was she? Three dead women – that’s some track record for a judge, eh? And what’s this
house worth – a couple of hundred quid? What about your shoes and your clothes when you were growing, eh? What about the times when my Sadie had to do magic with a few bob a week?’

‘Stop this, or you’ll be in hospital again,’ advised Denis calmly. ‘Take my word – there’s stuff you don’t know, stuff you’re better off not
knowing.’

‘I know what he did to my daughter, and that’s enough.’ Fred stood up and walked out of the house. In Eva’s fleshy arms, he wept until he felt weak, weary and dry to the
core. ‘Bastard,’ he cursed.

‘You’ll make yourself ill, love.’

He pulled away from his wife. ‘Nay, I won’t. Ill’s stuck in a trench with your best mate’s blood on your face.’ He pulled from a pocket Macker’s stolen
lighter. ‘Ill’s not knowing what you’re doing, or having no control over what happens. Ill’s cursing your officers for sending you up front, then finding the same officers
as dead as the rank and file. I’m thinking, Eva. I’m thinking and I’m grieving and yes, I’m bloody furious. But I’ll do nowt till I’ve thought on it. This time,
I’m in charge. It’s my bloody turn now.’

He sat in the same chair for the rest of the day, stirring only when food and drink were carried to him. Eva watched, waited, said nothing. Agnes called, but was told by her grandfather to go
home. He loved her and he told her that, but he was busy thinking. The sun began its descent and Fred walked to the bathroom. He completed his toilet with a shave; then, when dusk thickened, he
left the house.

Eva ran as quickly as she could to Agnes’s cottage. ‘He’s got the big axe,’ she mumbled through tears. ‘And his dander’s up. I know he’s a noisy old
bugger, but this time it’s different, because he’s quiet. I’ve never known him like this.’

‘Silent?’ Agnes asked.

Eva nodded.

Silent was dangerous. Agnes pushed her husband out of the house. ‘Be quick,’ she said. ‘He’ll kill him. Make sure Helen and the baby are all right, too.’

Eva and Agnes stared at one another for what seemed like hours. The clock was on a go-slow, its hands moving reluctantly to mark each passing moment. Eva sobbed quietly; Agnes trapped nervous
hands between her knees and prayed. Pop was lethal when truly angry. He had almost belted a teacher for giving Agnes the cane, and he had been very subdued and menacing on that occasion, too.
‘Mark our Agnes again,’ he had said softly, ‘and I’ll have you skinned at yon Walker’s Tannery – your hide’s thick enough.’ Oh, God, please
don’t let him kill anyone, Agnes pleaded inwardly.

‘How long now?’ asked Eva.

‘Twenty minutes.’

‘Is that all?’

Agnes nodded. Denis would catch him and stop him – wouldn’t he?

Fuelled by anger, Fred Grimshaw took the short cut across the fields. Denis would be hot on his heels, but nothing could stop Fred now. He remembered Macker, remembered also
the lads who had fought in the second half, as he termed the later war. A country fit for heroes? A country in which a barrister, soon to become a High Court judge, could impregnate an innocent
girl and get away with it? ‘We didn’t lay down our lives for this,’ he told his inanimate companion, a weighty axe that was suddenly as light as a feather.

Denis was there before him. He was hanging around at the front of the house, so Fred took a detour through the copse and entered the building by a rear door. The place was as quiet as a
graveyard. With no one to impede his progress, Fred walked through the mansion until he reached the hall. ‘Sorry, Millie,’ he said before delivering the first blow.

Now, the axe was suddenly heavy, but he dragged it over his shoulder and into the model until the table below, too, began to buckle.

Denis ran in and tried to stop the destruction, but Fred ignored him. Yet he saw the judge plainly enough, mouth opened wide, feet planted halfway down the stairs, hand gripping the banister
rail. ‘Stop this foolishness,’ Zachary Spencer called, but Fred was beyond retrieval.

When his work was completely destroyed, the grandfather of Agnes Makepeace paused for breath. Then he raised the weapon once more and addressed the man on the stairs. ‘This should have
been planted in your head.’ He nodded at the blade. ‘Agnes’s father? You? Our lovely Eileen made dirty by a man who was never a man? Missed the second war, didn’t you? You
sat at home and kept the legal wheels turning, soft job, soft chair, soft life.’

‘Be quiet, man,’ spat the judge.

Fred took from his pocket a handful of coins. Macker had died for this creep and for governments who still failed to make sense. Macker, twice the man that Spencer would ever be, was just a
cigarette case, a lighter and a remembered smile. ‘You big shit,’ said Fred, his voice unnaturally low. ‘Here you are, Iscariot – count them.’ He cast the coins into
the debris that had been the model of Lambert House. ‘Judas,’ he spat before walking out of the house, thirty shillings left behind for the traitor’s pay.

Denis said nothing. He simply followed his grandfather-in-law down the hill to Skirlaugh Fall, made sure that he went into Bamber Cottage, then turned to go home to Agnes. Eva, who had fastened
herself to Agnes’s window, left and pursued her husband homeward. It was going to be a difficult night, but Eva would cope, because Eva loved her husband.

‘Don’t go,’ Agnes begged the next morning.

Denis shook his head. ‘Sorry, love. The judge will be like a tiger on fire – I can’t leave Helen and the baby to his tender mercies.’

‘There’ll be repercussions. You’re related to Pop by marriage. The man’s a killer, Denis.’

But he would not be persuaded. He left the house by the front door, turned and waved to his wife and child.

Agnes felt a chill in her spine. She wanted to run after him, to plead with him to stay at home, but she knew he had made up his mind. She watched as he moved towards the big house, her heart
filled by fear, her mind scarcely working.

In years to come, she would speak sometimes of the dread she felt that day. After Denis had disappeared into Skirlaugh Rise, Agnes never saw him again.

2004

Ian Harte stepped out of his car and locked the door. The house known as Briarswood, formerly Lambert House, was still on the books, but a keen client had emerged and it had
fallen to the surveyor to discover, as cheaply as possible, why the house conformed to no law of architecture, gravity or simple common sense. The front of the building should sag, but it did not,
so an explanation had become flavour of the moment. Alterations to the cellars were the probable cause of the dilemma, but proof was needed in order to furnish the prospective purchaser with a
proper report.

A Mrs Agnes Makepeace was caretaker and key-holder, so he sought to discuss the matter with her, but no one responded to repeated knocking at the door of her cottage. After a couple of fruitless
minutes, he moved to the house next door. A young woman answered. She was done up like someone preparing to have tea with the queen, but that was normal these days, because the long-ago
weavers’ homes had become the bijou residences of the up-and-coming. ‘Yes?’ she asked.