The Judge's Daughter (43 page)

It was Lucy who cried, Lucy who said it wasn’t fair. Agnes simply sat and allowed the message to be absorbed by her soul. She was glad. No one should be forced to continue alive in such
condition.

‘She didn’t suffer,’ said Mags. ‘She just closed her eyes and fell asleep. You helped her, Agnes. It’s as if she knew you would come. I think she was waiting, but
she wouldn’t let me fetch you.’

Lucy turned her face to the wall and stifled the sobs.

‘The funeral will be at Skirlaugh,’ Mags announced. ‘I have detailed instructions – she is to be buried with her mother.’

Agnes nodded, sighed, looked down the long road she had travelled in the company of Helen. The further back she went, the narrower the track became, because the beginning had been so unreal
– Helen trying to seduce Denis, Denis resisting, Helen turning on her father – on the man who was Agnes’s father, too. There were those letters, there was an unpublished book, a
funeral to arrange. ‘We’ll go home and get ready for you,’ she told Mags.

‘Thank you.’

Agnes and Lucy went to say their final goodbyes to Helen. The face on white linen was as pale as the pillowcase, but pain seemed to be lifting itself out of features in which it had become
ingrained. ‘She’s all right now,’ Agnes told her weeping companion. ‘Don’t cry. You never trusted her, anyway.’

‘I did. Once all had been explained, I even liked her.’

‘How fortunate for her.’

Lucy, unused to sarcasm from her friend, had nothing else to say.

They left for the north the next day. A Hastings undertaker would take the body, then it was to be transported home and delivered to a funeral parlour in Bolton. For Agnes and Lucy, the rest was
vague, though they had been instructed to arrange a buffet at Briarswood. The will would be read in a Bolton office and Agnes hoped against hope that Millie would at least come to the funeral of
the woman who had been a loving mother.

‘What about that surveyor?’ Lucy asked as the train pulled into Trinity Street Station. ‘The one you forgot to ring?’

‘He can wait till it’s all over.’ The selling of the house was no longer at the top of the list, because Helen Spencer was coming home.

It was over. Agnes, feeling like a limp dishcloth, returned with Lucy from the reading of the will. Lucy, pleased to have been left pearls she had always coveted, expressed her
concern about deserting Agnes in her hour of need. ‘I have to get home,’ she grumbled. ‘The decorator’s going to do an estimate today. I could put him off—’

‘No. Go and get it over with.’

‘Phone me if you need me.’ Lucy left. Agnes, glad of her own company, sat and studied the fireplace. Lucy had had an ulterior motive for wanting to stay, because Agnes was in
possession of the sole copy of Helen Spencer’s unpublished typescript. Lucy always wanted to be the first to know just about anything – she had been the same since childhood.

‘No Millie, of course,’ Agnes whispered into the silence. ‘After all Helen gave up for her, she couldn’t even be bothered to put in an appearance now.’ It had been
a very quiet funeral. The village that had known Helen no longer existed. After almost forty years, the residents of Skirlaugh Fall had forgotten the Spencer family of Lambert House, now
Briarswood, Skirlaugh Rise. People came, people went, life went on. ‘Just as well,’ said Agnes as she removed her shoes and pushed her feet into a pair of old, well-loved slippers.
‘Or we’d still be mourning Adam and Eve.’

She looked at the parcel, recalled another package left here many years earlier, remembered with clarity the day she had read how Judge Spencer, after murdering one woman, had impregnated
another, her own mother. More reading to be done – more discoveries to be made, she supposed. A long time ago, Mabel, Helen’s nanny, had left a letter; Helen had left several hundred
thousand words.

The doorbell sounded. Agnes hauled suddenly heavy bones from their resting place, opened the door and was shocked to find Millie on the step. ‘Yes?’ Agnes had little time for her
devious and rather decorative half-sister. She was wearing well for her age, but plastic surgery had become a necessity, clothes a fixation, make-up an absolute must-have. Her surname seemed to
change with the seasons – few remembered whether she was married or to whom. This woman seemed to be as ruthless as her dead father had been; she cared only for herself.

Millie pushed her way into the house. ‘I missed the reading of the will,’ she said as she placed herself in front of the over-mantel mirror. A hand strayed to her throat. Did she
need a little more work in that area?

Agnes closed the door. ‘You aren’t welcome here,’ she snapped.

Millie, unused to being addressed in such fashion by Agnes, turned away from her own precious image and glared at the owner of this tiny house. ‘Why is that?’ she asked. ‘I
haven’t seen you for years – what on earth has happened to make you so nasty? I’m sure I don’t know what I am supposed to have done.’

‘You missed the reading of the will? Bugger the will – you missed the funeral. Helen gave up her whole life for you.’

The visitor shrugged. ‘No one asked her to. Anyway, what sort of life would she have had? No man wanted her. I was the only reason for her to get out of bed every morning.’

‘That’s not the point.’ Helen had indulged the child, had made excuses for the teenager, had lost the woman who stood here now. ‘Your father didn’t want you. He
threatened to have you adopted.’

‘Good job he died when he did, then.’

‘And you know about the will – half to you, half to me.’

‘But you aren’t a proper sister.’

Agnes lowered her chin. ‘I didn’t see much of Helen after she left for Hastings, but I was a better sister than you were.’ She raised her head. ‘What did you ever do for
her – for anyone other than yourself? Go and contest the will – I don’t give two hoots about the money. My grandfather – his work now sells second hand for a small fortune
– left me very comfortable. And Helen made sure I was safe. Do as you please, but leave my house.’

Millie’s jaw hung for a split second. ‘I couldn’t make the funeral – I was in hospital in San Francisco. What was I supposed to do? Get on a plane and let my wounds
become infected?’

Agnes half smiled and shook her head. ‘What was it this time? Liposuction? Another implant, a bit of collagen? You want to be careful – the skin of your face is stretched so tight
you look like something out of Tussaud’s.’

‘Nonsense. I like to make the best of myself. What’s wrong with that?’

‘Look at that skin-bleached pop star – the one whose nose seems to be parting company with his face. You can go too far with that particular addiction. Anyway, I have something to do
straight away, so leave now. Oh, and if you were going to ask yet again about the house – a surveyor is looking at it. You’ll get your share.’

Millie opened her mouth to speak, thought better of it, and left the house in a cloud of expensive and rather overpowering perfume.

Agnes set the kettle to boil, then stood and leaned against the kitchen sink. Through the window, she had a clear enough view of the big house. It wasn’t as easy to see as it had been
forty years ago, because trees had grown thicker, but it remained visible. Briarswood had become a thorn in her side. It had been impossible to let and was even proving difficult to sell.
Briarswood had been a suitable name for a thorn in her flesh, she mused for a second or two. She had just shown another spiky problem out of the house – how dared Millie turn up at this late
stage?

She settled in front of the television with toast and tea. Whatever was in Helen’s book would still be there tomorrow. But no programme suited her tonight, and she found herself thinking
about Mags, who had already returned to Hastings with Harry. Mags knew about the house and its weirdness. She had stayed in it with Helen and Harry after the explosion that had taken Denis and the
judge. It was creepy, she had said.

Agnes chewed thoughtfully. Bangles, beads, watches, cufflinks, wallets and purses had all disappeared, only to turn up an hour or a day later in rooms that had been unused. Mags didn’t
lie. Therefore, it was probably right to believe the stories of tenants, most of whom had left the house within a few months of failing to settle into it. Had the surveyor noticed anything odd? Was
that why he needed to speak to the owners?

Her eyes strayed once again to the parcel. According to Helen, the book was her own life story, but all names had been changed. The haunting was probably mentioned in there – perhaps she
should read a little of it tonight.

She finished her simple supper, checked locks and windows, picked up the package and carried it upstairs. It was unlikely to be suitable bedtime reading, but Agnes wanted Helen’s view of
the so-called spirits who were said to inhabit Briarswood. After preparing herself for sleep, she switched on her reading lamp before settling in bed with the large envelope. Poor Helen. Did she
want Agnes to try to get the story published?

The accompanying note said nothing about selling the script. It simply drew Agnes’s attention to chapter seven.

Forgive? Forgive what? Agnes turned immediately to chapter seven. From the start, she was riveted to the script. Oh, God, this could not be true. But it was true, it had to be true. She got no
sleep that night.

Ian Harte knocked on the door of the only decent-looking cottage in the terrace. Mrs Makepeace had never got back to him, so he was making a renewed effort to solve the riddle
of Briarswood. It was a valuable property, and his employers were keen to get it sold so that they could reap their statutory percentage.

The door opened to reveal a dishevelled woman who did not seem to fit with the neat house and garden. She was in dressing gown and old slippers, but it was the expression on her face that
dismayed him. The woman looked ill and worn out.

‘Yes?’ she said.

‘Ian Harte, Mrs Makepeace. I’m the one trying to do a full survey on Briarswood. You are one of the key-holders, I take it?’

‘I am.’

He hesitated. ‘Is this a bad time?’

‘I just buried my sister.’

‘Ah. I’m sorry. Would you like me to come back in a few days? I’ve no wish to intrude on your grief.’

It was Agnes’s turn to dither. Should she wade in and get the business over and done with? Or did she need some more thinking time? ‘There are complications,’ she said slowly.
‘My sister who died was part-owner, as is another sister. There were three of us,’ she added lamely.

He gave her an encouraging smile. ‘I see. Well, if you want to leave it for now, I’ll—’

‘Come back on Wednesday,’ she said. ‘Sorry to mess you about, but I have some legal business to finish and . . . erm . . . I’m not feeling too well.’

‘Is there anything I can do?’

Agnes smiled at him. He reminded her of Denis. Denis would have become a gentle, thoughtful soul – no – he had always owned those qualities. ‘No, thank you. This is something I
have to do by myself. Family and lawyers – I’m sure you understand.’

‘Of course.’ He turned, then swivelled back to face her. ‘Look after yourself, Mrs Makepeace. You have my phone number.’

Lucy phoned. ‘Have you read it?’

Agnes was transported backwards in time to the day when Lucy had asked the same question about testimony bequeathed by an ex-nanny. ‘Some of it, yes.’

‘What did it say?’

Lucy had always been so full-on, so direct and challenging. ‘I can’t talk about it. Lucy, please don’t ask.’

‘But—’

‘I told you not to ask. Mags lost patience with you in Hastings – it takes a hell of a lot for Mags to lose patience. Sometimes, people need to be left alone to digest information.
Not all knowledge needs to be broadcast immediately, you know. I have to come to terms with this on my own. When I am ready to talk, you will not be the first to hear – I am sorry about that.
Things need to be done now in the correct order. I shall give them their airing when my own head is clear.’

‘Oh. Right. Shall I stay away for a while, then?’

‘Good idea. I’ll call you once the show is on the road.’ It would be a show, too, she thought. A three-ringed circus was about to pitch its big tops in the grounds of the
village named Skirlaugh.

Agnes sat all day in her dressing gown and slippers. She drank what seemed to be a gallon of tea, ate arrowroot biscuits and half an apple. The typescript remained upstairs, because she did not
want it in the same room as herself. Its current place of residence was at the bottom of a blanket box underneath one of Denis’s cable-knit jumpers. Denis. Oh, Denis. At last, the tears came.
There was no need to cry quietly, because this was a proper house, its walls inches thick and made of stone.

The truth of which she had just become proprietor weighed heavily. It was not something she could keep to herself, yet she scarcely knew where to begin. Was there a right way? Who would be
hurt?

She dried her eyes and phoned Hastings. ‘Mags?’

‘Yes?’

‘You were expecting me to call.’

‘I was, yes.’

‘Is it the truth – this chapter seven?’

‘I never read it, Agnes, but I think I know what it says.’

‘And Harry really did do that?’

‘He did. He would have done anything for her. It’s been difficult. Their relationship had a passion I never shared with him.’

A few beats of time passed. ‘Did they sleep together?’ Agnes asked.