“No, no.”
“Now, pet,” said Jemima in gentler tones.
“You go with Mary. You’re going to have some nice milk.”
Bridget was taken out, still protesting, and I was flattered by her reluctance to leave, but all the same eager to hear what Jemima had to say.
“Well, Miss Sinclair,” she said as soon as we were alone.
“I’d like a word in your ear. I only speak because I think it’s right and proper that you should not be in the dark.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“Things are not always what they seem, you know.”
“Indeed, I know that.”
She put her face close to mine, assuming an air of wisdom. Her eyes were small and too closely set together. I thought she looked like a witch.
“I think you are a good, respectable young lady and you should not be deceived.”
“It is the last thing I want,” I said.
“I should like to be enlightened in whatever way you think.”
She nodded.
“There is one who should be here now, and would be … but for what others did to her. If anyone was thinking of taking her place, I reckon they ought to think twice before they took that step.”
I felt myself flushing, and I said: “I don’t understand what you are implying, Miss Cray.”
“I think you do,” she said severely.
“All I am trying to do is drop a word in your ear. It’s for your good. She married into this place and, before a year was out, she was dead and before she came here she was a merry, lighthearted little thing.”
“You are referring to … ?”
“My Miss Laura, that’s who.”
“I understood she died giving birth to Bridget.”
“Poor mite. She never ought to have been put through it. He knew that and yet he made her. There had to be a child … a son, I suppose.
The family and all that nonsense. She knew it was dangerous. I knew.
But it had to be. It was pitiful to see her. Frightened, she was. She said to me: “Jemima, you’ll always stay and look after my baby when I’m gone, won’t you? You’ll look after my baby, just as you’ve looked after me.” And I swore I would. Oh, it was wicked. It was cruel.”
I said: “It was very sad that she died, but it does happen sometimes.”
Her face hardened.
“There’s some as would say it was murder,” she said.
“Miss Cray!” I said.
“You must not make such insinuations. It’s quite wrong. It is natural for people to have children when they marry.”
“He knew, just as she knew. But it had to be. Oh, he knew well enough and I reckon that’s the same sort of thing as murder. And nothing will make me change my mind. That’s the sort he is. And people should know it.” She rose and in a matter-of-fact voice went on: “Well, I must go and see to Bridget. You can’t trust that Mary with much.”
She turned away. I called after her.
“Come back. Miss Cray. I want to talk to you.”
She was at the door. She turned and said: “I’ve said my piece. I know what happened. I saw it all. I know just how it was.” Her face was distorted with venom and hatred, and I knew it was directed against Lucian.
I said to myself: She’s mad. But I was very shaken.
The memory of Jemima stayed with me. I found it hard to stop thinking of what she had said and the expression on her face when she had talked of murder.
She was warning me. She had seen me with Lucian in the stables.
Murder, she had said. She was accusing Lucian of that because his wife had died in childbirth. She meant:
Do not become involved with him. He knew Laura was unfit to bear a child and yet he insisted. Such a man is capable of anything . murder of any kind . to achieve his ends.
I thought again: The woman must be mad. Indeed, there was a hint of fanaticism in her eyes when she talked of Laura’s death.
Why did she stay? Because of this vow she had made to Laura, the wife who had known she faced death? It all seemed very melodramatic, and I did not believe a word of it. Jemima was a highly emotional woman. She had given all her devotion to the girl whom she had looked after; and when that girl had died she had to blame someone, so she blamed Lucian. I was almost a stranger to her, but she thought that Lucian might ask me to marry him; and she was warning me, or pretending to. When Laura had died, she must have been heart-broken and she had to blame someone for her death, so she blamed Lucian. And now she was jealous of my friendship with her charge. She did not want me here.
I suppose there was a certain amount of reason in that.
Murder, she had said. It was pure nonsense. But she had used the word and that was very upsetting.
I decided to take the first opportunity of talking to Lucian. It came next morning when he was showing me something in the garden.
I said: “Lucian. You never talk much about Bridget. She’s such a dear little girl. I have made her acquaintance and we get on quite well.”
“I don’t know much about children.”
“She seems to spend most of her time with that nurse.”
“Most children spend a lot of time with their nurses.”
“But it seems as though you and Lady Crompton are hardly aware of her existence.”
“Does it?” he said.
“I expect I have been remiss. One doesn’t talk about one’s failures. It was all rather hasty. That marriage, I mean.
A mistake from the first. The child was born and Laura died. That’s really all there is to it. It wouldn’t have been very satisfactory, even if that hadn’t happened. “
“If Bridget had been a boy …” I began.
His face darkened slightly.
“Perhaps it is as well. But it’s all over now. It was a mistake. I have made a few in my life, but that was the greatest. I meant to tell you about it, but somehow I could not bring myself to. It’s a depressing subject.”
“She was very young to die.”
“She was eighteen. It all happened so quickly. She did not like the Grange. She said it was old and full of ghosts and shadows and the ghosts didn’t want her. It was so different from everything she was used to. Her father made a great deal of money out of coal. She couldn’t understand the customs of a family like mine. And then there was the child. She was terrified of having it. She seemed to know she was going to die.
She lived in fear of death, and that woman never left her. “
“You mean Jemima Cray?”
He nodded.
“She was the only one who could calm her. It was a wretched time for us all.”
“The little girl is charming. I should have thought she would be a comfort to you and Lady Crompton.”
“That woman was always there.”
“She is certainly rather odd.”
“She is good with the child. She would do anything for her.”
“Have you ever thought of replacing her?”
He lifted his shoulders.
“We’ve wanted to, of course. But there’s some promise. In the circumstances, the easiest thing is to let her remain here. So it seems Jemima Cray is a fixture. Oh, let’s talk about something pleasant! You must come down again soon.”
I said: “This visit is not yet over.”
“No, but I can’t tell you how much I enjoy them. My mother is saying that we must entertain more. She is not well enough to do a great deal, but she did enjoy it in the old days. We have some interesting characters round about-the usual mixture of traditional country types and the occasional eccentric. I can’t tell you how we look forward to your coming-my mother as well as myself.”
“And you will come up to Town for the wedding, won’t you?”
“I must, of course.”
And I went on thinking of Jemima Cray.
Castle Folly
Gertie wanted Aunt Beatrice and Uncle Harold to give a dinner-party.
“We’ll have t
he Rowlands, Lawrence Emmerson and his alter ego Dorothy, you, myself and the romantic Lucian. I think it will be fun. You’ve had so much hospitality … all those weekends … and you’re our responsibility. Soon we shall be cluttered with wedding obligations, so we’d better do it soon.”
Aunt Beatrice was delighted, and then she was a little apprehensive.
“Shall we be grand enough?” she asked.
“The Emmersons are all right, but what about that Sir Lucian?”
I assured her there was nothing to fear on that score.
It would have to be dinner, not lunch, said Gertie. Lunch was not quite the same. The Emmersons would be all right. They had their place close by, but what about Lucian? He lived in the country. They couldn’t put him up for the night.
I said he would stay in a hotel. He did when he came to London for a brief period. We would invite him to the dinner-party in any case.
The invitations were given and accepted. Lucian said he would stay at Walden’s in Mayfair, as he had done on previous occasions. He had some business to do in London and he would arrange to do it at the same time. So it was all satisfactorily arranged.
Gertie was in ecstasy. She was over almost everything at this time.
She was so delighted with life. It would not be long now before she was Mrs. Ragland. The house was almost ready and the future looked rosy. All she needed now was to see me in a similar state. Dear Gertie. She had been such a wonderful friend.
She and Aunt Beatrice talked constantly of the coming dinner-party.
What flowers should they have? The best china, used only on special occasions, was brought out; there was a higher gloss on the furniture than usual.
“Dorothy might notice,” I said.
“The others certainly won’t.”
The great day arrived. We had an aperitif in the drawing-room before dinner and in due course assembled at the dinner-table.
Conversation was lively and ran smoothly. Lawrence told a few anecdotes about life in the hospital to which he was attached; Lucian talked animatedly of the estate and country life and the rest of us joined in: even Uncle Harold had something to contribute, while Aunt Beatrice kept an alert eye on the food, so anxious was she that nothing should go wrong.
She need have had no qualms. Everything went according to plan and I think the guests were so interested in the conversation that they would not have been aware of it if it had not.
We had left the table and had gone to the drawing-room for coffee when Dorothy started to talk about a book she had read.
“You would not suspect Dorothy of being interested in such gruesome subjects, would you?” said Lawrence.
“But crime has always fascinated her.”
“I know she wrote a book on the subject,” I said.
“She lent it to me.
I found it fascinating. “
“It was inspired by the Jameson case,” said Dorothy.
“Do you remember it? It took place years ago. A Martin Jameson married women for their money and then, when he had arranged for it all to come to him, he just disposed of them. The interesting thing was that he was such a charmer. No one believed he could commit such crimes, and he was able to operate with success for some time. “
“The charm would equip him for the work he had decided to do, I imagine,” said Lucian.
“But it was not exactly a pose. The man was kind … it turned out that he had helped lots of people. They came forward to testify for him. He was highly respected wherever he went. And all the time, he was seeking out these women with money, going through a form of marriage with them, then murdering them. Right up to the moment of his death, he was gentle and charming.”
“There must have been some violence in him,” said Lawrence.
“And don’t forget, he did it for the money.”
“A murderer deserves to hang,” said Bernard.
“I think Dorothy wanted to understand the man,” explained Lawrence.
“To discover what his thoughts were as he put aside his gentler instincts and became a killer.”
“That’s clear enough,” put in Uncle Harold.
“He wanted the money.”
“And so he was hanged,” said Gertie.
“Anyone who kills someone deserves to hang.” She looked at Bernard.
“Especially husbands who kill their wives.”
“I’m listening,” said Bernard.
“I don’t think you’d think what I’ve got would be worth while,” retorted Gertie.
“Well,” replied Bernard, “I shall have to look into it!”
Dorothy had no intention of allowing this kind of lovers’ banter to intrude on a serious subject.
“It’s interesting to study these cases,” she said.
“It gives one a certain understanding of people, and people are fascinating. There is this case I have just been reading about. A young girl was shot in a place called Cranley Wood. It is in Yorkshire. This was some years ago. There is a possibility that they hanged the wrong man.”
Lucian leaned forward, listening.
“I don’t remember this case,” he said.
“There was not a great deal of publicity about it. I think people thought the man who confessed some time after was mad.”
“Do tell us,” said Lucian.
“I am sure Dorothy will,” replied Lawrence.
“She’s on her favourite hobbyhorse.”
“Murder is so interesting,” said Gertie.
“Briefly, this is the case,” began Dorothy.
“Marion Jackson was the daughter of a farmer. She was engaged to marry Tom Eccles, also a farmer living in the neighbourhood. A small landowner, also in the district and known to be something of a lady’s man, had been abroad and when he came back, a number of the local girls were fascinated by him, and it seems that Marion was one of those who fell under his spell. It is not a very usual story. Marion was seduced by the philanderer and became pregnant. She made an attempt to pass off the child as Tom Eccles’s. There was a scene in the woods between Marion and Tom, which was overheard. Tom had discovered that the child was not his and made Marion confess who was in fact the father. That afternoon Marion was found in the woods, shot through the heart.”
“The farmer fiance did it,” said Gertie.
“I expect he was furious.”
“Understandably,” said Bernard.
“So it was thought,” went on Dorothy.
“There was an inquiry. There was nothing special about the shot. It was fired from an ordinary sort of gun. Tom Eccles had one, so did Marion’s father and countless other people around the district.”
“What about the philanderer?” asked Aunt Beatrice.
“He too, I dare say. Several people had heard the shot. Tom Eccles could not account for his whereabouts at that time. He had, however, been heard to say, ” I’ll kill you for this,” during the scene with Marion earlier on; and he was in a rather hysterical state at the time. The trial did not last long. It seemed certain that, overcome by an excess of jealousy, Tom Eccles had killed Marion Jackson. He was found guilty and hanged. That happened more than twenty years ago. You might say it was a perfectly commonplace crime, the sort of thing that has happened again and again.”
“No crime is ordinary,” suggested Uncle Harold.
Dorothy turned to him.
“You are right. That is why it is so. fascinating to study these things. As I said, this happened a long time ago. A crime was committed and a man was hanged. Has it ever occurred to you that there might be other occasions when a person can be hanged for a crime he or she did not commit, although all the evidence may point to that person’s guilt?”
Lucian said quietly: “It has.”
Dorothy nodded at him approvingly.
“This is what has interested me about this case. Five years ago … that is, fifteen years after Tom Eccles was hanged, a man wrote a letter to the press. He was on his deathbed and for a long time, it seem
ed, he had been troubled by his conscience. It was just possible that he had been the murderer of Marion Jackson, although he had never known her had never even seen her.”
“Then how could he have been the murderer?” cried Gertie.
“It is very strange and yet … plausible. His name was David Crane.
He was in those woods that day when Marion died. His hobby was pigeon-shooting. His home was in Devonshire and he was on a walking holiday in Yorkshire, going wherever the fancy took him. Sometimes he’d stop at an inn; sometimes he would sleep out of doors if the weather was good enough. He’d fire a shot at a rabbit, pigeon or a hare when the fancy took him. It was a pigeon at this time. He missed and did not think much more about it, but when he realized that it was at that very spot where Marion had been killed, he began to consider.
“Some years later, he returned to the woods; he discovered that exact spot where Marion’s body had been found, and it occurred to him that his shot might well have been the one which killed her. Tom Eccles’s last words were, ” I swear to God I did not kill Marion. ” David Crane could not forget it. He went back again to those woods. He encountered Tom Eccles’s father and talked to him about the case. The old man was sure Tom had not committed the crime. He swore he was not in the woods at that time but alas, he could not prove it. True, Tom possessed the kind of gun from which the shot had been fired, but so did hundreds of others.
“Tom would never have died with a lie on his lips,” declared the old man fervently, and that was when David Crane’s conscience began to trouble him. “
We were all listening intently now. Dorothy was on her favourite topic and she knew how to hold an audience.
Lucian said: “And this old man … what did he do about it?”
“He wrote the letter on his deathbed.”
“He waited till then!”
“He would have reasoned that, if he had come forward, he could not have saved Tom Eccles.”
“No,” said Lucian firmly.
“There was nothing he could have done.”
“What a thing to have on one’s conscience!” said Lawrence.
“I can understand his feelings,” added Lucian.
“I understand absolutely.”
“Imagine,” said Dorothy, ‘a normal sort of person having to ask himself, “Did I kill someone?”
The Black Opal Page 24
