by Pat Herbert
THE POSSESSION OF NOVEMBER JONES
A Reverend Paltoquet
Supernatural Murder Mystery
by
Pat Herbert
OTHER NOVELS IN THE
REVEREND PALTOQUET SERIES:
The Bockhampton Road Murders
Haunted Christmas
The Witches of Wandsworth
So Long at the Fair
The Man Who Was Death
The Dark Side of the Mirror
Sleeping With the Dead
The Corpse Wore Red
Seeing Double
THE BARNEY CARMICHAEL
CRIME SERIES
Getting Away With Murder
The Murder in Weeping Lane
The Mop and Bucket Murders
Also by Pat Herbert:
Death Comes Gift Wrapped
PART ONE
London, the Late 1880s
THE MORELAND FAMILY TREE
Edward and Charles Moreland (siblings)
EDWARD Moreland (1849-1888) unmarried
Edward = Rose Jones (1866-1888)
|
Edward Moreland Jones
(Ted) (b. 1888) m. Mary
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Augustus (b.1924) m. Ethel
|
November (b.1940)
CHARLES Moreland (1851-1929) m. Daphne (1860-1959) (no issue)
Charles = Lily Martin (1867-1888)
|
Mary Josephine (Araminta) b. 1886
Chapter One
She shivered in the November cold. It wasn’t the sort of night to be touting for business. By rights, she should be tucked up in a warm bed, but chance would be a fine thing, she thought with increasing bitterness. She stared out into the driving rain from her customary doorway in Vinegar Alley and sneezed. Her cold had lingered so long now she was convinced it was to be the death of her.
She wished Charles hadn’t stopped visiting her. When he had been her sole client, she had had no need to go wandering the winter streets for custom. She had stayed inside her warm, well-appointed little room and awaited his pleasure. He had come to see her at least twice a week and paid her handsomely for the privilege. But after she had the baby, little Mary Josephine, he hadn’t come anymore.
And because he hadn’t come, she had to go back on the streets in order to feed and clothe her child, his child. She sighed as she remembered. Charles had once brought her little gifts, anything she had wanted. She had only to ask him. He had treated her with affection and respect, as if she was a proper lady. She remembered his handsome face, his kind, almond-coloured eyes, and the moustache which used to tickle her every time he kissed her. She had loved the feel of the soft hairs against her lips.
She had been stupid to think Charles had really loved her, but it had been easy to be taken in, lulled by his soft, flattering words. But men were experienced liars, she had found that out soon enough. He had never loved her; otherwise, he wouldn’t have deserted her.
Her lovely baby had been born at the Bethnal Green brothel where she had worked, under the care of Mrs Cleverley. No doctor on hand, of course. It would probably have been better if the baby had died. But it hadn’t. So she had been thrown out of the brothel, baby and all, and left to fend for herself. Luckily, she had a strong constitution and had survived against all the odds, getting by on her wits and her trade.
She thought back over her pitiful life as she stood there in the shelter of a doorway. There was a time, not so long ago, when Lily Martin hadn’t cared if she lived or died. But then she had met Mrs Cleverley, which had turned out a mixed blessing, at best. She had been only fifteen, left an orphan after the death of her mother. She had been walking along the Balls Bond Road when a respectable-looking woman in her middle years had accosted her. She hated that woman now, but then she had been grateful to her for, if she hadn’t met her, she would surely have starved.
It was while she was being groomed by the old witch, that she had been introduced to the man she had only ever known as Charles. His last name was shrouded in mystery but, even if she had known it, it would have done her no good. If she had been able to find out where he lived, there would have been no point in going there, either. She knew that. She had learned a lot in the past five years.
Now she was back where she’d started, she realised, as she stepped out of the alley and turned the corner. She was on the very same street where Mrs Cleverley had found her what seemed a lifetime ago. But this time there was no hope of rescue. A tear fell slowly down her frozen cheek.
The cold rain was soaking through Lily’s inadequate clothing and her shoes were letting in water. No one would be out on a night like this, she reckoned. Only madmen and axe murderers, neither of whom were suitable client material. So it looked as if, once more, she would have to go without eating. As long as she made enough milk for Mary Josephine, that was the main thing.
But it was still quite early, only ten-fifteen by the striking clock, so she decided to wait just a bit longer in the hope someone would turn up. As she was thinking this, a shadow crossed her path.
“Hello, mister,” she said with an effort at a come-hither smile, “looking for a good time?”
“Hello, my dear. Yes. May I?”
Blimey, she thought. May he? Whoever heard the like? “May you what?”
“May I have the pleasure?”
She squinted up at the figure who she could see was wearing a top hat, making him a toff in her book. She continued to stare at the black mass which was all she could see of his face. Gradually, she began to discern his features as the light from the gas lamp nearby cast its muted glow over him. It could have been a trick of that light, but he reminded her a little of Charles.
“If you like,” she shrugged.
“Do you have somewhere we can go out of this cold?” asked the man.
“I’ve got a room just round the corner. It’s not very posh, though.”
“But it has all the requisite accoutrements?”
She didn’t even know if the man was talking English now. “Eh?”
“A bed?”
“Oh, yes. A bed. Sort of. The springs have gone, though.”
She wondered why she said this. The last thing she wanted to do was put him off, as this was likely to be the best offer she would get, not only tonight but for many nights to come.
“Never mind,” replied the man, however. “Lead the way.”
Chapter Two
Lily showed the gentleman into her shabby little room, and the first thing he noticed was the makeshift crib in the corner. A baby! Poor child, he thought, to be a mother so young and on the street selling her body in order to survive.
Edward Moreland smiled at Lily as she lit the lamp. They stared at each other. What Edward saw was a lovely young woman rapidly going to seed, at the mercy of her hard life. Her blonde hair was dark and matted, unwashed for weeks probably. The bloom on her young cheek had faded, and her skin was that of a much older woman.
What Lily saw was an elegantly dressed man in his early thirties. Her eyes hadn’t deceived her. Now she could see him clearly, he looked more like Charles than ever. The man had obviously come from the opera or music hall, judging by the evening cloak slung nonchalantly over his shoulder and the top hat she had noticed earlier now in his hand.
She started to undress but the man stopped her. “No, child,” he said, laying his hand gently on her poor, thin arm. “I haven’t come for that. I’m here to help you.”
“Help me?” she gasped. “How?”
“By taking you to live in a big house with other poor ladies like yourself,” he said, sitting her on the only chair in the room. “I have a place in Tottenham
where they all live. I find them honest work and see that they have all they need: food, clothing, medical care. They want for nothing. Would you like that?”
Would she like it? It sounded like a miracle to Lily. Too good to be true. “But why, sir? Why would you want to help me? Don’t you want your naughties first?”
“I told you I’m not here for that,” he said, a little sternly. “I just want to help you out of the gutter, that’s all. You and your little one.” He went over to the crib. “Boy or girl?” he asked.
“Girl,” she said with pride. “Mary Josephine.”
“She’s charming,” he said, looking into the crib. “How old is she?”
“Nine months,” Lily told him, looking up into the man’s face.
Could she trust him? She’d trusted people before and look where it had got her.
“Tell me, er – sorry, I didn’t ask your name.”
“Lily, sir, Lily Martin.”
“How do you do, Lily?” he smiled. “My name is Edward – Edward Moreland.”
That settled it. She had to trust him. He had told her his full name without hesitation. Besides, what choice did she have? Go with him or carry on as she was doing now? After all, it wasn’t just herself she had to consider. Little Mary Josephine was relying on her.
He turned back to the crib. “May I hold her?” he asked.
“If you want – but she’s asleep and if you wake her she’s got a pair of lungs on her that’d wake the flippin’ dead,” she said.
“I won’t disturb her, then,” he smiled. “So, Lily, are you ready to come with me now?”
“Now, sir? You want me to come with you now? To the big house?”
“Yes. To the big house. You will be very happy there, I promise.”
Lily looked around her apology for a room and made up her mind. “Thank you, sir,” she said. “I will come.”
Anything was better than having to look at these four miserable walls again. Old Mrs Carstairs could whistle for her rent, the thieving cow, she thought with grim satisfaction.
So, gathering up her baby and wrapping her in the only shawl she possessed, Lily Martin followed her benefactor out of the room.
Edward Moreland and his young charges arrived at his Tottenham home just after midnight. Lily was as excited as a child. She had never ridden in a hansom cab before and had wanted the journey to go on all night. But Edward had stopped the cab outside a very imposing looking building, and she had become just as excited about that. He helped her down from the carriage and took the baby from her. She followed him up the winding path to the front door and waited while he pulled at the big bell. The silent night erupted to the sound of its jangle. An owl hooted in the distance and several dogs barked. Almost immediately, the hall was flooded with light and the door was opened by a little old lady holding an oil lamp that seemed too heavy for her.
“Hello, Kitty,” he said. “I’ve brought a new lady home, as you can see. And she has a young ’un too. Look.”
Kitty’s face lit up under the glow from the lamp. “A baby?” she croaked. “How lovely.”
She took the bundle from Edward’s arms and ran down the passage with it. Lily became alarmed at once.
“Where’s she taking my baby?” she asked.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “Kitty’s an old wet nurse and misses having babies around. Your baby will come to no harm, dear. She just wants to make a fuss of her for a while.”
“I don’t want her to,” said Lily with determination. “She can’t have her. She belongs to me.”
“Of course, she does,” Edward reassured her. “Just give Kitty a few moments with her. She’ll give her back to you presently. Now come, follow me.”
Lily was reluctant but did as she was told. He led her up the large, winding staircase, followed by two narrower sets of stairs to a small room at the top of the house. He opened the door and ushered her in.
“This will be your room,” he told her. “Wait here while I fetch Lydia. She’ll bring you a candle and light the fire for you.”
With that, he left her sitting on the bed. She looked around, utterly bewildered. What was she doing here? She was beginning to wonder if she had done the right thing by trusting this smooth-talking man. And why had that horrid old harridan taken Mary Josephine? What was she doing to her?
Soon, a slip of a girl in a white nightgown appeared with a candle and some kindling. She was rubbing the sleep from her eyes and yawning as she crossed the room to the hearth.
“Are you Lydia?” she asked her.
“Yes, miss,” she replied, accompanied by another yawn.
“I’m sorry you’ve been woken up,” said Lily.
“Don’t matter,” the girl snuffled. “I’m used to it. Anyway, I’d do anything for Master Edward. ’E’s a saint, that’s what ’e is.”
“Is he?” questioned Lily. “He’s taken my baby – well that Kitty’s taken her. I don’t like it. Will I ever see her again?”
“’Course you will, miss,” said Lydia, kneeling down to light the fire. “Miss Kitty’s a dear old duck. Loves babies, she does. Used to be a wet nurse.”
“That’s what Mr Edward told me,” said Lily, now somewhat reassured. “But I want my baby here with me.”
“Don’t worrit yourself, miss. Your baby will be safe with Miss Kitty. She looked after me when I was younger, you know. She never did me no ’arm.”
Lily smiled as the warmth from the hearth spread around the little room. The glow from the sparking flames diluted the gloom of her surroundings, and she began to relax at last. Her new bed, with its cheerful patchwork counterpane, was soft and comfortable. She bounced up and down on it. There were no broken springs to dig into her bottom here. All she wanted now was to hold Mary Josephine in her arms, and she would want for nothing more ever again.
Chapter Three
Charles Moreland sighed as he looked across the breakfast table at his attractive, if slightly plump, wife. The maid was clearing away the remains of their late morning meal, and he was already late for an appointment with his bank manager. He had a big property deal in the offing and was anxious to close it with the help of a hefty bridging loan. Money had never been a real problem to him, so he wasn’t really worried about the outcome. He and the bank manager were thick as thieves. Scratching mutual backs was part and parcel of their long-term relationship. No, the real reason for his sigh was much more problematical, and he didn’t want to divulge it to his wife. Not yet, anyway.
Daphne Moreland smiled at him as he rose to leave. “Give my best wishes to old Bushy Whiskers,” she said.
‘Bushy Whiskers’ was her pet name for their bank manager, who possessed a large and luxuriant handlebar moustache that seemed to hide more of his features every time she saw him.
“I will, my dear,” said Charles, folding up his newspaper to take with him. “I’ll be popping over to see Edward after my meeting at the bank, by the way, so I’ll probably not be back before teatime.”
“I see,” said Daphne, tidying her hair as she rose from the table, hardly listening. “I’m going shopping this morning, and then I’ll be lunching at Claridges with Cynthia.”
Shopping and lunch, thought Charles. More money down the drain and only some blessed awful hat to show for it. He wasn’t short of a bob or two, but he secretly wished Daphne wouldn’t do her best to give most of what he had to Harrod’s. But then he chastised himself. She had to have some compensation for the lack of what she really wanted. He understood that, so he rarely complained about her extravagance. Anyway, all that was about to change, he hoped.
“Very well, dear.” He gave her a smile. “Enjoy yourself. Give my love to your sister.” Cynthia was even more extravagant than his wife.
Charles was looking forward to seeing his brother Edward later that day. He had received a communication from him that morning telling him something he had been waiting to hear for a long time.
He arrived
on his brother’s doorstep just after noon, relieved in his mind after a satisfactory meeting with ‘Bushy Whiskers’. It was a typically dreary November day as he made his way up the path to the front door. It was a long path, which matched the big Tottenham house exactly. Not for the first time, he wondered how his brother could afford its continued upkeep. If he were uncharitable, he would think the women he purported to save he was actually saving for himself. How else did he make his money? But he dismissed the thought almost as quickly as it had entered his head. Not Edward. He knew him better than that. Besides, he couldn’t afford to get on his wrong side. Not today of all days.
He rang the bell which was soon answered by a girl in a maid’s uniform that looked much too big for her. Was this slip of a thing one of those his brother had saved, he wondered. She was little more than a child. What was the world coming to?
“Yes, sir?” asked Lydia, looking up dutifully at the elegant gentleman before her. He had the look of her kind master about him.
“I’ve come to see Mr Moreland, dear,” said Charles. “Tell him it’s his brother. He is expecting me.”
“Oh, yes, sir, of course, sir.” And the little girl made a small curtsey.
Charming, charming, thought Charles. No, he chided himself, keep your mind on the business in hand. Time for pleasure when it was done.
As her husband was being shown in to see his brother, his wife and her sister were dining at Claridges. Although it was a cold, damp day outside, inside the elegant hotel all was light and bustle. Women, weighed down by extravagant hats, expensive furs and heavy make-up, were being wined and dined by charming men, all equally weighed down by exotic moustachioes and silk hats. Daphne looked around, soaking up the atmosphere which was as intoxicating as the wine she was drinking.
