The Murdering Wives Club

by Sharon Thompson

  Her white apron gets a rub of floury hands. She opens the cave of an ancient oven and lets the heat out to blush our cheeks.

  “There’s nothing too different about me,” I say. “What is it that you want to know? Spit it out, Giles. Spit it out!”

  “I’d love to know more about General Ashfield. He was always Fidgeting Freddie to us and he used to ruin the roses in the garden when he was a young fellow. He played with Laurie’s brother, Ian, all over the grounds and caused untold mayhem. It’s hard to believe he’s General material. The army must’ve made a man out of him.” Giles peers at the cloth he’s using and then buffs the tray a bit more. “I’ve wanted to ask you – was it Lord Wester who introduced you to him?”

  “Yes. When the Wester children were sent to school and my nannying came to an end, rather than going back home to the pig farm in Meath, I asked Fredrick – I mean, the General, for a position. It was that simple.”

  Leaving out the part of being in Wester’s bed, I watch Giles work. If I was one of those girls who liked older men, Giles would be attractive for a man in his late sixties. He’s still agile, slim and well-presented.

  I fix the pleat in my skirt and check my stockings are straight. “I also wanted a change. I’m used to be being the bossy one and have big notions about being a woman who can make something of herself. I suppose too I want to make a difference in this wretched war. I don’t like children much and sitting behind a desk doesn’t suit me at all. Are those eggs I spy in that basket?” I potter over to the worn wooden work surface next to the window. The sun is blinking through the clouds and I run a hand over the smooth brown shells in the wicker container. “Are we having these today?” My mouth waters and Cook grunts in agreement. “That lifts my spirits. This rationing is hard to take. Laurie will enjoy these.”

  “You’re very good to Mr Davenport,” Giles says. He sounds pleased.

  “He’s a good man,” I tell Giles as reassuringly as I can, “but he’s been a bit of a challenge and he’s going to need lots more help to get him back on his feet.” I’m always a little wary of Giles as I realise he might well be jealous of my position after all his years of service to Laurie and his parents. “We’ve started an assignment for Fredrick. We’re working on … a secret mission, I suppose you’d call it. I offered to lend a hand in the hope that the General will see that I’ve brains as well as beauty.” I wink at Giles. “In fact, we’re about to go to Northern Ireland for a few days. You’ll need to pack for Mr Davenport, please. As I said – it’s exciting.”

  “Is it dangerous?” Giles asks, sitting up on the stool and raising those thick eyebrows. “Has Mr Davenport not been in enough peril?”

  “If all truth be told, he’s not going to be much use,” I start and then realise how I sound to the only two remaining people who consider Mr Davenport to be their family. “It’s giving him a purpose though. Something else to think about. We hope that it helps.”

  Giles sets down the cleaned items on the tray and stands to squint at them. He examines the tea-service items from a few angles. “I see,” he mutters.

  “I’m here to take care of him and to get him back to his old self,” I say eagerly, perhaps too eagerly. I have my own reasons for wanting to be here and my own ambitions that a British General can and will help with. The General wants to keep tabs on what he’s doing and how he’s feeling. He worries. That’s why I’m here. We all want to see him get better.”

  “So, you’re saying that you are really here to spy on poor Mr Davenport?” Giles asks, taking off his spectacles to squint closer. “Is that what you’re saying, Miss Walsh?” He is teasing me as usual. He smiles.

  “You’re like the Gestapo, Giles,” I say with a giggle. “Don’t you worry. I’ve not been trained in espionage.”

  Giles’ attention is taken by Cook’s orders about wood for the fire and I breathe a sigh of relief. But a dread sinks in. This isn’t the last time I’m going to have to lie about my real reason for being here in Davenport Manor.

  Chapter 3

  Laurie Davenport

  The journey aboard the Duke of Abercorn steamship across the Irish Sea is rougher than forecast. Not being able to see adds to the worries of being sunk by a German U-boat. Tensions are high still about the allies’ campaigns. I hate listening to the constant radio bulletins but Norah reassures me that there’s “a big push on” and things are turning around for the lads I’ve left behind.

  With even the slightest movement of the ship, I curse under my breath.

  Norah is as direct as ever. “Stop fretting. It doesn’t help. If we die, we die but it’s unlikely we will. Your nerves won’t affect the outcome one way or the other.”

  She booked us two cabins and hired pillows and blankets, but I doubt I’ll sleep much.

  “Half past nine on the dot and we’re going at a good speed,” she says. “Doesn’t it feel like we’re heading along nicely?”

  We’re sitting in my cabin on what feels like a very small bed and I’m wishing she was going to stay with me. I don’t want to be alone and close my eyes to pray that something might make her stay on the other small single bed she has laid out my things on. It would be nice thinking of her sleeping not too far away, and she could just lie there with me in the dark. I would be gentlemanly. I would not act on my impulses.

  “Did you hear me?” she asks. “Once we dock in Belfast in the morning, we’ll go straight to the women’s prison in Armagh and then get the hired car to our guesthouse.”

  At least all her instructions are taking my mind off my swirling stomach and impure thoughts about her remaining with me during the night’s crossing.

  “I’ll read some of this file to you,” she says. “Are you listening?”

  I usually love her voice but now it drones on like the labouring engines. The destination is almost as unsavoury as the journey itself. We’re heading to interview a convicted woman who has been sentenced to death for many crimes.

  “‘In 1933, Eve Good was sentenced to death for the murder of Mr Frank Hockley and Mr Cedric Fellows. She was also charged with the murder of her husband Mr John Good, but there was insufficient evidence to convict her of his murder, or for the attempted murder of Mrs Marjorie Fellows. With the lack of influential people to plead for clemency, to date she's not been granted a reprieve. A date might be set for her execution at any time.’” Norah stops. “You’ve got that faraway look again. Are you listening at all, sir?”

  “And she’s the only person to mention this Murdering Wives Club?” I ask and steady myself by gripping the mattress when there is a rather large sway of the ship. “Christ, I really feel that I might die before I meet this murderer.”

  Norah laughs. I like the sound even if it is at my expense. I am seriously fearful of everything these days but I’ve never been confident on boats or ships. I cannot swim well. Like the rest of my failings, I don’t want to tell Norah this. She’s accomplished and in control. I miss that feeling.

  “Do you need a hand to get undressed?” she asks out of blue. “I’m just thinking I might go to bed myself. I’m tired.”

  My groin hardens at the thought of Norah and me in a state of undress and I feel as if I have blushed crimson. “No, thank you,” I mutter and then say loudly, “I think I’ll stay in my clothes. A man should die with his trousers and shoes on.”

  Norah is giggling and getting up to go. I want to implore her to stay here until we dock in the morning. Otherwise, it’s going to be a long sleepless night for me. I want to throw my arms around her and explain that I’m afraid, but it would be improper to ask for a lady to stay in my cabin. It wouldn’t be fair to her reputation. What happened to me being less compliant? I’m failing at that as well. I even allowed her to bully me into leaving my morphine, my Velvet Syrup medicine, behind.

  “You could stay with me?” I say hopefully.

  “You have your hipflask and you can always bang on the wall and I’ll come to rescue you, sir,” she says with a squeeze to my
arm.

  I pat my front pocket and stop myself from reaching out to hug her. “Whiskey,” I confirm with as much confidence as I can muster. “Dear goodness, I’ve just realised that we’ll have to go through this on the way back too!”

  “Isn't this much better than sitting in that old dusty parlour in the manor? Mind you, I don’t want to be too long in the North. An Irish Catholic needs to be careful what she says and where she says it there. But isn’t it great to be on a little adventure, sir?”

  “Hmm, and please call me Laurie,” I say and stop for I sense she’s gone and then there’s a click of the door closing.

  I lean back onto the pillows and pull the scratchy blanket up to my chin. A fumble into my breast pocket unearths my twenty-first birthday present from Freddie. I take a long swig from the hipflask and it warms my throat and soothes me slightly, but with each nod off into sleep I’m back on the transport ships that took us Sappers to Italy. It was the autumn of last year and I could see back then and I still couldn’t imagine the danger ahead for me. For us all. Now, I’m fearful again – of all that I cannot see and all that I can imagine.

  Chapter 4

  Laurie Davenport

  The ninety-minute drive to Armagh Women’s Goal from the docks in Belfast is uneventful and I’m thankful for that. I haven’t slept a wink and feel like death warmed up. I managed a change of shirt and a splash of water to my face but it didn’t help much.

  Northern Ireland is suffering with bombings, conscription and rationing but Norah says, “Armagh looks nice in the sunshine. Tulips blooming and the streets are busy. It’s a pretty city.”

  As we wait to be let into the prison, I pull at my father’s repurposed suit and fix my tie. I’ve lost a lot of weight and nothing fits. Norah is not good with a needle and thread, but she has reassured me twice since we got here that I look dapper. I miss the confident reflection that used to greet me whenever I found a mirror. It’s difficult to go out when you don’t know how you appears to others.

  I should be used to confined spaces or literally be blind to them, but I sense entrapment.

  As we walk through echoing corridors, Norah whispers. “What an awful place!”

  We reach a room and they give me a cold chair to sit on. I try to stop my leg from shaking and place a gloved hand on my knee.

  “Are you all right, Norah?” I ask the presence to my right.

  “Yes, sir, I have my notepad ready to take shorthand and don’t you worry about me. There’s a female guard here too sitting behind us and I’m told the prisoner is fairly well behaved.”

  The guard makes a scoffing sound.

  I smell that she’s just had a smoke. She likes a cigarette. I must remember to ask Norah what kind and we’ll bring some the next time we visit.

  “You don’t agree?” I ask the guard, half-turning in the chair.

  “She’s a bad egg, sir. That’s all I’m going to say on the matter.”

  “I see.”

  Norah has read me the rest of the file on this woman on the way over here in the hired car. It does seem that she is more dangerous than old Freddie initially thought. She refused to talk for her trial and, although she was sentenced to death, she and the rest of us are waiting on her sentence to be commuted to life imprisonment. It’s rare for a woman to be executed.

  She came forward months ago talking about wives murdering their husbands, but she wasn’t believed. Until now, that is.

  There is an opinion in the military and society that women are not capable of heinous violence or evil. I would not have believed it possible either, but here I am in a women’s prison. There is a need to lock them away for crimes, so they’re not all devoted mothers or members of the Women’s Institute. It’s not something I’ve given much thought to – until now.

  Norah is nervous about coming to the north of Ireland and, considering she’s an immigrant from the republican and rebel south, it’s interesting that she is highly thought of in the British military.

  She said a few times on the car journey here, “Let’s be quick about this trip, sir. Get the information from this woman and get home to Davenport as quick as we can.”

  At this very minute, I can think of nothing else but taking her home and escaping this prison and this terrible situation.

  “Eve will like to keep you waiting, sir,” the guard says in a low whisper. “This is a treat for the likes of her. She’s not liked at all and we don’t believe a word she says. Take none of the nonsense she’ll dish out.”

  “Agreed.” I nod even though the guard is behind me. “I would appreciate your opinion for my reports though?”

  “I’m not sure I should say any more, sir. You’ll see what I mean for yourself soon enough. Just don’t let her shock you. She’ll love that.”

  There is more clanking and clanging and the shout of the guards to one another about the time being ten minutes past ten. There’s a turn of locks, and keys on chains dangle and rattle. Feet scuff the floor and the light changes quickly. A movement of bodies and the smell of starch. The chair on the far side of the table moves and a dark figure sits.

  “Mrs Eve Good, I’m Laurie Davenport,” I say and stop myself from giving her my hand to shake.

  “You cannot see me?” she asks in a northern Irish accent. “How can we communicate properly?”

  She’s trying to sound more educated than she is. As an Irish housewife, she’s also haughtier than I expected.

  I smile. Norah told me to tell her nothing about myself. It’s difficult to know what is the best way to start this conversation.

  “I cannot. But –”

  “Is that woman taking notes?” she interrupts.

  “This is Miss Norah Walsh. She is my personal assistant. She will take down all of the information for me. I cannot do this for myself.”

  “I see.” Eve chuckles. There’s a cruelty in the laugh. “I see and you cannot see. That’s funny.”

  I scratch my moustache. She’s unlikeable. Norah shuffles uncomfortably too. We are out of our depth and we both know it.

  I try to take control. “This is very unorthodox practice and I hope you realise that you’re lucky to be given this time. So let’s begin.”

  “I won’t start with her here.”

  This throws me off kilter. I thought that she would respond well to other women. Unusual.

  “Norah is staying. Let’s begin,” I say with determination.

  “If I begin, do you promise that I’ll be kept away from the other animals in here?”

  I just nod, for I’m not totally sure what she’s been told will happen for her co-operation.

  “I’ll be killed for talking to you. You do know that? If you want me to tell you what I know then you’ll need to keep me alive.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m valuable to you and I’m not happy about another woman being here. Not happy in the least.”

  My lips purse tightly together. She is taking the upper hand and I feel at a disadvantage in so many ways. Not seeing her mannerisms might be a blessing – her voice is intimidating enough – but not being able to see her is making me nervous. I’m also not experienced in talking to women, never mind criminal ones.

  “You’re pretending that you don’t need me?” she says. “I think you do though. If I wasn’t important then why would a gentleman like yourself be sent from London? I’m a person with some valuable information. Men like you think women are inferior. Well, I can tell you that we are far from that.”

  Norah’s pencil scrapes across the paper. She sniffs.

  “You’ve reported that you were almost killed by a group of women in Netterby, County Down, in 1933?” I’m wishing I had my notes to glance at. The exact details escape my memory.

  “Yes. I was shot.”

  “And you claim that these women wanted you to help them and others to commit more murders?”

  “That’s correct. They wanted me to advise others on how to kill their husbands.”

  �
�And … you allege that they shot you because you wouldn’t do their bidding?”

  “In short. Yes.”

  “And that speaking up could get you killed. Even in prison?”

  “That’s right, but I’m not going to sit here and keep answering questions about things I’ve already told the other officers. It’s wasting time. I’ll be killed if they hear about this.”

  “I doubt they even know we are here.”

  “They will know! They have eyes and ears everywhere.”

  “Why do this then – if it is so dangerous?”

  “I want to be moved to a better, more comfortable place. I’m tired of waiting on word about my fate. I’ve been promised. I know that women with means have been sent to nicer facilities. I want the same treatment. I need to get out of this hellhole. I’ve signed an agreement. I asked only to speak to a man. I’m not sure I can go on with her here.”

  “I need Norah.” I tell the dark shape. “She is my eyes and she stays.”

  “Don’t you realise she could be one of them?”

  “One of what?” I ask.

  “The women you want to know about. No, I’ll only give my accounts to you, Mr Davenport.”

  “Mrs Good, that’s not possible. I need Norah.”

  She doesn’t seem to be listening because she starts muttering about her safety and then says, “She’ll tie me in knots and I’ll not present myself properly. I’m not on trial. That’s another condition. I’ll explain all freely and perhaps someday you’ll see that my words bring about some good. All of the information will be the truth and from my memories. But I don’t want her here at all!”

  “Norah will stay. End of discussion. Let’s move on. There are key things we wish to know. Who are these women? And what proof do you have about what they are doing?”

  Eve ignores me and continues. “This is the way it will be. No women must know.”

  My mouth goes dry. She talks like a man, not in tone, but in manner. She is unapologetic, speaks without fear, is full of determination and self-belief. Eve Good is formidable. I wonder what she looks like. If she is beautiful then I can understand why she went undiscovered for so long. I’ve met similar men in the army. They are handsome, charismatic and confident, with a lack of conscience. If this Eve Good is anything like them then I think she would be a perfect vehicle for killing.