The Possession of November Jones

by Pat Herbert

  “If he recovers,” said Lily, sitting beside her, and removing the sharp weapon as she did so. “I’ll have to return this while no one’s looking.”

  “Best do it now, then, while everyone’s up in Edward’s room. The kitchen should be empty at the minute.”

  “You’re right, Rose,” said Lily, jumping up quickly. “Thanks.”

  Rose tutted and shook her head. “You fool,” she repeated.

  As Lily ran out of the room, Rose turned to the crib and picked up her baby. She held him tightly to her breast. The world had turned upside down, but little Edward Moreland Jones was safe. The prospect of marriage to his father was now fast receding. Even assuming he recovered from his heart attack, there was no possibility that he would marry her now.

  She had been with Lily when she threatened him with the knife, so she was implicated by association. If he died without being able to say what had actually caused his heart attack, all would be well but, if he survived, he would be sure to have both herself and Lily put under close arrest. What would her baby do then, if his mother was sent to the gallows?

  She and Lily would have to run away as soon as they could. That was the only thing to do now. She had resisted before, but there was nothing else for it. Lily’s stupid action had put both of them beyond the pale.

  Lily, meanwhile, had found the kitchen deserted and managed to put the kitchen knife back where she had found it. She sighed with relief as she sat at the long table that seemed to dwarf the rest of the room. But she was no nearer finding out where her baby had gone, and Edward Moreland, the one person who knew, would probably take the secret with him to the grave.

  Then she remembered the letter.

  Chapter Twelve

  She reached for the heavy bell pull. Number 15 Common Way, Wandsworth, was an imposing house, not unlike Edward Moreland’s in Tottenham. It was roughly the same size, although the front garden was better kept, despite the winter weather hiding most of the plant life beneath a snowy blanket. But she could imagine how the garden would look come the summer and was only sad she wouldn’t be there to see it. The rose bushes alone promised a riot of scents and colours. But now the January wind was biting through her thin garments, and the warm weather seemed an eternity away as she stood on Charles Moreland’s doorstep.

  She had read Daphne Moreland’s letter to her brother-in-law with growing anger and had reread it again and again until every word was seared on her memory. The bit about changing Mary Josephine’s name had hurt her the most. What kind of a name was Araminta? Sounded foreign to her.

  She stamped her feet, trying to get the circulation back into them. The soft thin leather of her shoes let in the cold, icy snow and added to her anger and frustration. Would nobody ever come and answer the door?

  As she thought this, it opened to reveal a young woman in a black gown and white apron holding a besom.

  “Yes?” The Morelands’ housemaid, Agnes, stared at the pretty young woman shivering on the front porch.

  “Can I see Mr Moreland, please?”

  The maid looked her up and down with undisguised disdain. But Lily’s nerves were at the sticking point. She had travelled all the way from North to South London (Surrey, almost) in a hansom cab, paid for by Rose and the others who, between them, had managed to scrape together enough for her fare. So this uppity servant, looking down her nose at her, wasn’t going to put her off. She hadn’t spent the best part of two hours travelling in this foul weather to turn back now.

  “Do you have an appointment, miss?” asked the maid, politely enough.

  “No, but he has something of mine, and I mean to get it back.”

  Agnes continued to stare at Lily, not giving an inch either.

  “Well, you can’t come in unless you have an appointment. He’s a busy man. Besides, I can’t think what sort of thing he has of yours. You must have come to the wrong house.”

  “He’s got my baby, if you want to know. Him and his missus. They call her Araminta but her real name’s Mary Josephine, and I’ve come to take her home with me. She don’t belong here with these toffs.”

  Agnes was open-mouthed. “How dare you come here with such a story,” she said. “I can’t imagine what you could’ve been thinking of.”

  “I just want my baby!” Lily began to cry.

  Agnes seemed to relent a little and, without speaking, stood to one side to allow Lily into the entrance hall.

  “Where is she?” demanded Lily, staring around her, taking in the highly ornate decor that screamed wealth at her. This was a well-to-do family and no mistake. Is this where little Mary Josephine was? Had she been brought here? If so, maybe she had been worrying too much. Maybe, just maybe, he child would be better off here.

  “She’s not here. The nanny has taken her for a walk in the park.”

  Lily stared. “But it’s too cold to take a baby out!” If she had begun to think perhaps she could trust these people to look after Mary Josephine properly, she had changed her mind again now.

  “Don’t worry, miss. The little mite was well wrapped up. Miranda is very careful.”

  “Who’s this Miranda?”

  “The nanny. She’s about the same age as you and a kinder, softer hearted girl never breathed. You need have no fear for your baby – if she is your baby.”

  “’Course she’s my baby!” cried Lily. “Now show me to Mister Charles, or I’ll scream the place down.”

  Agnes looked at Lily doubtfully for a moment, then seemed to make up her mind.

  “Wait here,” she told her.

  She strode towards the parlour and tapped gently on the door, coughing politely as she entered. Charles and his bank manager were poring over some building plans spread out on a large coffee table.

  “So, you see,” Charles was saying, “these plans are more feasible than the ones I showed you before and shouldn’t be objected to by the locals. We’ve covered every eventuality this time.”

  He looked up at the sound of the housemaid’s cough.

  “Yes, Agnes, what is it? I gave strict instructions that we were not to be disturbed,” he said crossly. “Can’t you see my wife about whatever it is?”

  “Mistress Daphne has gone out to lunch, sir. Besides, the young lady asked for you, most particular like.”

  “Young lady? What young lady? Please tell her that if she wants to see me, she’ll have to make an appointment and send her about her business.”

  “I think you should see her, sir,” insisted Agnes, casting a meaningful glance at the bank manager, who was standing by with an amused look on his face.

  “Very well,” sighed Charles at last. “You’d better show her in.”

  Agnes made no move to do his bidding.

  “Well? Are you going to stand there all day? Go and get her. I’m a busy man.”

  “I think you should see her in private, sir,” said Agnes, unperturbed by her employer’s ill temper.

  “In private? What on Earth do you mean?”

  “Just that it’s personal, like.”

  “I’m sorry, Granger, old chap,” said Charles, turning to him. “It seems I have private business with this young woman, although I have no idea what. Did she give you her name, Agnes?”

  “I didn’t ask for it.”

  “All right. Please take Mr Granger into the morning room and give him some more coffee and show this young lady in here.”

  

  Charles wasn’t surprised when he saw who his mysterious visitor was. He had known it was her, it couldn’t have been anyone else. He had only to look at Agnes’s expression. She had obviously been enjoying every moment of his discomfiture in front of his bank manager.

  “How did you find me?” he asked, shutting the door. He had no doubt his maid’s ear would be pressed up against the other side of it.

  “It weren’t difficult,” Lily told him. “Your wife writes a lot, don’t she?”

  Charles sighed. “So you found the letter she wrote to my brother. Do you hav
e it on you?” Not that it mattered now, he thought. The damage was done.

  “Nah,” said Lily. “Don’t you know what’s in it?”

  She was walking up and down the room, examining all the fine furniture and drapes, as if she was a prospective buyer.

  “Of course, I know what’s in it. But how did you get hold of it?”

  “I found it in his coat pocket when I went to get his pills,” she explained.

  “His pills?” Charles looked at her in alarm.

  “Oh yeah, I forgot. Your brother has had a heart attack and not expected to live.”

  She told him this shattering news as if she was telling him there was a chance of rain.

  Charles slumped down in his chair and put his hand to his forehead. “Edward? A heart attack, you say? And you took advantage of his condition and stole his letter? How could you?”

  Lily turned to face him. “I hadn’t intended to take it. It was just there in his pocket where his pills were.”

  “I must go to him,” said Charles, leaping up. “I suppose I should thank you, then, for bringing me this news?”

  “That wasn’t the reason I came,” said Lily, coming up to him and pushing him back in the chair. “You know the real reason as well as me, and I ain’t going until I get back what’s mine.” She leaned over him menacingly.

  Charles was filled with panic. His wife was having lunch with her sister and would be back soon. Mr Granger was still in the house, having coffee in the morning room. Miranda would be bringing the baby back from the park at any minute. He grabbed Lily by the shoulders as he struggled to get up from the chair. Lily was surprisingly strong, but he soon overpowered her. Now she was the one in the chair, and he was the one standing over her.

  “Look, Lily, I won’t mince words. You have me over a barrel. Wait there.”

  With that, he swept out of the room. He was a desperate man, but a plan was already forming in his brain.

  He shepherded Mr Granger hastily to the front door, saying he had an urgent domestic matter to attend to. If the bank manager guessed what was up, he didn’t say so and Charles, at that moment, didn’t care. He didn’t have the time for convoluted explanations.

  He called Agnes to him and gave her that morning’s correspondence to post.

  “But, sir, I normally take these to the box at four o’clock,” she protested. “And I’ve still got the beds to see to.”

  “One of these letters is very urgent,” explained Charles impatiently. “So, you might as well take the rest while you’re about it.”

  He waited for a full minute to make sure she didn’t return on some pretext or other and then returned to Lily waiting for him in the parlour.

  Entering the room, he watched her as she warmed her hands by the roaring fire. He had to admit she made a pretty picture sitting there. She smiled slyly at him as he came towards her.

  “Where’s my baby, then?” she asked. “I thought you was gone to fetch her.”

  “It’s with the nanny,” he said. Then he returned her smile, which was even more sly than hers. “Why don’t we make ourselves comfortable while we wait for them to return?”

  Lily’s smile grew wider. She became aware that he was giving her an appraising look. Her instant reaction was to touch her hair under his admiring gaze. Vanity died hard, it seemed, even in these trying circumstances.

  He reached out for her, and she raised her mouth to his. His hands were on her shoulders and slowly moving towards her neck.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Here, Lyd, I want you to look after this.”

  Rose held out a small chocolate box to the young girl. Both of them looked worried. It had been over twenty-four hours since Lily had set off to find Charles Moreland and her baby, and she still hadn’t returned.

  “What’s in it?” Lydia asked, fingering the ribbon which was still attached to the box.

  “It’s mine and Lily’s,” said Rose. “It contains some precious things what we don’t want no one to get their thieving hands on.”

  “You mean Mister Edward?” asked Lydia.

  Rose nodded. “I want you to keep it safe, that’s all I’m saying.”

  “I don’t think you need worry about ’im no more,” Lydia pointed out.

  “Yeah, well, I never expected him to keel over like that. Lily only waved the knife at him, she didn’t intend to use it. Now, you’re the only one who knows what happened and you mustn’t tell a living soul, Lyd. Promise?”

  “’Course not, Rose. But you ain’t told me what’s in the box.”

  “It’s very precious. It’s got my little Edward’s birth certificate in there, the one you got done for me. It says on it clear as clear that my baby’s name is Edward Moreland Jones and that the father is Edward Moreland. You mustn’t let it out of your sight, Lyd.”

  “I won’t Rose, I promise. What else?”

  “A lock of our babies’ hair – mine and Lily’s, see.” She opened the box that Lydia was still holding and showed her two curly black locks. “See. Ain’t they pretty?”

  “They are, Rose, very pretty.” Lydia gently stroked the two bundles. “Which is which?”

  “That one – the slightly darker one – is little Edward’s. The other’s Lily’s baby, Mary Josephine’s. She showed me that when I first met her the day after she came here. She’d carried it next to her heart everywhere she went. She put it in the box for safe-keeping just before she went yesterday, together with this letter which she found in Master Edward’s pocket. See – it’s from his brother’s wife. That’s how we got the address.”

  Lydia stared at the meaningless jumble of letters. “Is that what it says? You know I can’t read, Rose.”

  “Oh, yeah, sorry, I forgot. Anyway, just keep all these things safe.”

  “But why d’you want me to ’ave them?” asked Lydia, puzzled.

  “Because I’m going to find Lily,” said Rose. Her voice was steady, but her bottom lip was quivering. “And I want you to look after my baby, too.”

  “Oh, Rose, you be careful!”

  “Don’t worry, I shall. I’ll find out what’s happened to Lily and her baby, and I’ll bring them both back with me. But you must promise me you’ll look after little Edward. Don’t let him out of your sight, whatever you do.”

  They both looked at the sleeping baby in the cot by Rose’s bed.

  “I won’t, I promise I won’t. But what if you don’t come back?” Lydia’s eyes were full of tears.

  Rose gently stroked the younger girl’s hair. “You’re going to be a beauty one day, Lyd, better looking than me and Lily.”

  “You ain’t answered my question,” insisted Lydia, fearing the answer.

  “Don’t worry. Nothing’s going to happen,” said Rose. Then a thought struck her. “You’d better give me that box, after all,” she said, snatching it.

  “Why?” Lydia was more confused than ever.

  “’Cos if I find Lily, she’ll want to have these precious things to remind her of her baby. So, I’d better take it with me.”

  “D’you think you’ll find ’er, Rose?”

  “I know where she’s gone, don’t I? So, I don’t see why I won’t find her. I just hope the baby’s with her, too.” She paused. “But I’ll take this box, just in case.”

  “But what if anything happens to you?”

  “Then you must take my baby and run. Run as far away as possible. Don’t let Mister Edward or any of his family take him. Okay?”

  “Okay,” echoed Lydia, the tears falling down her face unchecked.

  

  Charles Moreland mopped his brow and thought fast. Why couldn’t these silly women leave well alone? Why come round here, making trouble? If Daphne ever found out that he was the real father of little Araminta, there would be hell to pay. Maybe she would have forgiven him in time, but there was the rest of the household to consider. Lily would have made sure that Agnes and Mrs Gladwin, the cook, knew what he had been up to and that would be his undoing. His
reputation and standing in the community would fly right out of the window. He couldn’t, and wouldn’t, countenance that.

  Lily had been easy. Her little throat had snapped just like a chicken’s. One minute she was staring at him, fire in her eyes, ready to scream her head off; the next she was a limp rag in his arms. Quite dead, there had been no doubt about that. He hadn’t really meant to kill her – just to shut her up. But that, he reasoned to himself, was the only way he could do it. Anyway, who would miss her? He remembered she’d told him once that she didn’t have any family.

  There was, of course, the problem of what to do now that he’d taken the irrevocable step. Lily’s lifeless body was laying in the coal cellar, beside that of her friend, Rose. That had been something he hadn’t bargained for, Rose turning up like that.

  Daphne had still been in the house, getting ready to go on one of her interminable shopping expeditions, something not even thick snow had been able to prevent. Miranda had taken the baby out as usual, so that had been all right. Agnes and Mrs Gladwin had both been in the kitchen, the former polishing the cutlery, the latter writing out the menus for the week.

  Agnes had shown Rose into the parlour, so he’d had to make some excuse for her disappearance without being shown out, as was usual.

  “She only had a message to deliver, Agnes,” he had explained to the suspicious maid, “so I didn’t think it worth bothering you to show her out again so quickly. I know how busy you always are.”

  He’d known she hadn’t believed a word of it, but it couldn’t be helped. It had been very unfortunate that he had to kill the other girl, too. She’d told him her name was Rose, and she’d come to ask where her friend, Lily, was. His hands had been round her throat before she could say anything more. And he had found that it didn’t take much strength to turn a ravishing beauty into a bug-eyed, blue-lipped corpse. He had regretted it with all his heart, but he’d had no choice.

  One problem now remained: what to do with the bodies. Two lovely young women, dead as mutton, were lying in his coal cellar and, by his calculation, the next delivery of coal was due the following day. So all he had to do was wait for them to pour the coal down the chute on top of them. And, with each new delivery, the bodies would continue to remain undiscovered until they became just a pile of unidentifiable bones.