Agnes gazed steadily at Helen. There was something different about her, something new. ‘The dream?’ she asked.
‘Gone,’ was the reply. ‘The whole situation has righted itself.’
Both women knew that Helen Spencer had spoken the truth. She was calm – almost cold. There was a new set to her shoulders – the slight roundness had disappeared, while her eyes no longer betrayed sleeplessness or troubled nights.
‘Did that head doctor help?’ Kate asked.
‘Partly, yes. The pills from the hospital helped me to sleep at night. But Dr Small wasn’t the whole answer. That came from a totally unexpected source.’
The housekeeper and Agnes waited, but no further information was forthcoming. Helen, her mouth set in a determined line, made up her mind there and then. ‘I shall take Louisa to the sea and I shall tell him where we are. If it’s for the good of her health and for the sake of his child, he will have to agree. Before you ask – yes, I am still afraid of him. But because of . . . oh, never mind . . . I am now in an even better position to stand my ground.’
Kate snorted. ‘Good luck. You’re going to need it.’
‘If I am sure of your safety,’ Helen told Agnes, ‘then I can be stronger. We must all cease to show fear of him – keep it hidden, keep him guessing. If we can do that, he will leave us alone. He needs to be in charge, needs to translate fear into respect. His weakness is that he needs to believe himself to be respected in spite of . . . in spite of all he has done.’
Agnes swallowed hard. It had happened. The dreams were no longer necessary, because Helen had the truth at last. From where, though? Had she travelled all the way in her sleep, had she woken with the full story in her head? Or had Mabel Turnbull died? To whom had that letter been addressed? ‘I’ll come with you,’ she decided aloud. ‘Denis won’t mind. If I pay for my own food, then—’
‘No.’ Helen’s face was alight with joy. ‘No, you’ll pay for nothing, my friend. I’ll be so glad of your company – and a holiday will do you good. Denis will be glad for you, I’m sure.’
So it was decided that Kate would stand guard on the home front while Helen and Agnes looked after Louisa. Destinations were discussed before Agnes began the walk homeward. How cool Helen had been, how sure of herself. She was a new woman, remoulded and ready to take on the world. But would she really manage her father?
In the cottage, Agnes removed her coat and picked up the phone. As she had expected, Mabel Turnbull had died two weeks earlier. The letter, she concluded, was now in the possession of Helen. When asked by the matron for her name, Agnes terminated the call. It was over. Helen knew what her father had done and appeared to be dealing with it.
Denis agreed right away that a holiday would do Agnes good. ‘But don’t go too far,’ he warned. ‘I might get there for a weekend if it’s not at the other end of the country.’
Agnes tried to imagine the scene at Helen’s house, judge in his chair, defendant standing on the carpet, his face reddening, hers white with nerves. But it had to be done. Louisa’s life was in danger, as was that of the child she carried. Away from Lambert House, there was a chance that she might thrive once more.
Had Agnes taken her imaginings to the ends of the earth, she could not possibly have pictured the reality of that meeting between father and daughter. When Helen had said her piece, Zachary Spencer, shaking from head to foot, could find no immediate reply.
‘What’s the matter, Father?’ she asked. ‘Did Oscar run off with your tongue? Don’t worry – Denis and Fred will look after the dog while we’re away. Oh, and remember my warning – it includes the dog. Miss Mabel Turnbull was brighter than you thought. In all honesty, I can’t remember her face, but the letter convinced me that she had been a part of the household all those years ago. So.’ She straightened her spine even further. ‘So, I, too, have written a letter. It contains Miss Turnbull’s letter to me and the whole bundle is in very safe hands. That letter could ruin you for ever – we both know that.’
He gulped noisily, reached for his brandy. The letter would be with George Henshaw, of course. Had anyone other than Helen read it?
‘If I die, that envelope gets opened. Miss Turnbull’s letter, too.’
So, Helen had been the sole reader. After clearing his throat, he finally spoke. ‘Miss Turnbull was a nervous woman. She saw trouble where there was none.’
‘Really? That explains how clearly her story resembles the dream that haunted me for months. I was there.’
‘You were not three years of age when Mabel Turnbull ceased to be your nanny. She acted as housekeeper after that.’
‘Yes, and after you had relieved her of her virginity.’
The judge took another hefty mouthful of brandy. ‘That is neither here nor there. What else was in her letter? Not that anyone would believe her, of course.’
‘Then why have you paid for her upkeep since she left? Why did you pay the fees at the home when she got old?’
He lowered his chin and said nothing. For the first time in his adult life, he was losing an argument. His daughter was the only person who had defeated him. He needed to know the contents of Mabel Turnbull’s letter, but he realized that he dared not ask. ‘Where will you go?’
‘Somewhere between Blackpool and Morecambe – not too far away, as Louisa is unfit for long journeys. We shall travel in my car. You will continue here as usual, I suppose.’
‘Don’t tell me what I will do,’ he snarled.
Helen clung to the edge of her courage. ‘There was a name in that letter, Father. There were several, but I recognized one of them immediately. Need I go on?’
He hurled the brandy globe into the grate. ‘Travel where the hell you like – summer is gone, anyway, so you have missed the best of the weather.’
She had never seen the best of the weather, because she had lived her whole life in the long, dark shadow of this man. Helen did not react to the smashing of the glass. ‘Bracing winds might be just what Louisa needs. She did not enjoy the heat. A few weeks on the coast will do her the world of good.’
‘Leave my office, please.’
She walked to the door, placed a light hand on the knob, turned to look at him. ‘Isn’t knowledge a wonderful thing, Father? It’s power. All these years, you have presided over my life like some ugly ogre, ill-tempered, unpredictable, devoid of all decent human emotion. It’s my turn now.’ She opened the door. ‘Go to hell,’ she ended clearly. ‘I am a match for you, because your blood runs in my veins, too.’
The trembling began as soon as she reached the main hall. Even now, she was terrified of him, because she knew that he was capable of acting beyond the reach of reason. It was all in the letter from Miss Turnbull, a message written decades earlier when the woman’s mind had been young and clear. Judge Zachary Spencer was a self-created law. He embodied the book of rules, amended the contents to suit himself, assumed that he was beyond the reach of other mere mortals.
Helen closed the door of her apartment and sank to the floor. What was she going to do? Not about Louisa, not about the immediate future, but in the long term. Her father knew the true law of the land and might even escape the spectre of Miss Mabel Turnbull. But there were names in the letter. He had been a womanizer all his life and Miss Turnbull had watched the comings and goings in Lambert House for years before leaving. When his first wife’s body had barely cooled, he had begun to share his bed with anyone who became available. After that, he had, for the most part, amused himself well away from the house.
The rest of the message? She shuddered anew. Two facts had emerged, one of them terrifying, the other a mixed blessing. There was a great deal to be absorbed and she could take her time over it while away by the sea. Helen now held her father’s fate in her hands; she was judge, prosecution and jury. His defence? There was none. Those twin facts from the nanny’s letter were burned into Helen’s brain like brands on the skin of farm animals; from two pieces of knowledge, she had gleaned insight into herself. She
was her father all over again and she was the only person qualified to mete out his sentence. Judge Zachary Spencer was a marked man. And he knew it.
Lucy Henshaw, who still worked part time for her husband, looked up as a large shadow touched her desk. Irritated already by the complicated documents in her hands, she sighed heavily. People who wanted to play at litigation were silly and made a lot of work, so— It was Judge Spencer. ‘Yes?’ she asked.
‘I need to talk to your husband.’
‘He isn’t here.’
He frowned. ‘Then I shall wait.’
Lucy shrugged. She knew the probable reason for the man’s visit – he would be looking for two letters, one written by his daughter, the other a legacy from Mabel Turnbull. Lucy knew nothing of their contents; neither did her husband, but the firm was responsible for the safekeeping of Helen Spencer’s property. ‘Please yourself, sir, but he won’t be back for hours.’
Yet another woman was standing in his way – well, sitting in his way.
‘Do you wish to make an appointment?’ she asked sweetly. ‘Or shall I get another of the partners?’
‘No.’
‘Is that a no to both suggestions?’
‘Yes.’ He walked out of the office, slamming the door in his wake. Lucy picked up her phone. George was having a word with builders at the barn, where, according to him, the telephone was just about the only item in working order.
‘George?’
‘Yes?’
‘The judge has been and gone.’
‘Ah.’
‘Is it lodged with the bank?’
‘It is indeed. What was his mood?’
Lucy laughed, though there was no glee in the sound. ‘The same as ever, love. Bright, breezy, cheerful – need I go on?’
‘No. Tell me – what are we going to do about this damned fireplace?’
They talked about modifications to their new home, then Lucy returned to the original subject. ‘Does this mean that Agnes is safe, George?’
‘Safe as houses and a great deal safer than our barn.’
‘Good.’ She returned to her work, which embodied a silly quarrel about two feet of land at the rear of a pair of semis. Agnes was safe. Nothing else mattered. Two feet of land certainly failed to enter the equation.
They stayed outside Morecambe, Blackpool’s poorer twin. It was quieter than Blackpool, with fewer shops and vehicles, but the sea was there, the air was clean and their accommodation, a rented semi-detached house, was comfortable. The only cloud on an otherwise clear horizon lay in the knowledge that Judge Spencer’s yacht was moored well within driving distance. ‘He won’t come,’ said Helen repeatedly.
Agnes kept a close eye on both her companions. Louisa, still quiet at the start of their holiday, was beginning to eat more regularly, while Helen was a strange mixture of calm and alertness. It was all tied up with the death of Mabel Turnbull – of that Agnes was certain. But she asked no questions, because the judge’s daughter needed as much rest as anyone.
After three days, Louisa showed signs of her old self. As it was raining, she insisted on games of Monopoly and cards, even showing elation when she won. Away from her husband, she started to thrive, often cheating at dominoes and palming cards when she thought no one was watching. They were watching, each glancing at the other with relief in her eyes.
He came. Agnes saw the expression on Louisa’s face when he kissed her on the cheek. It was as if a darkness had fallen over the woman’s skin, a stain applied by the very man to whom she had entrusted her life.
Denis, who was on driving duty, followed his master into the house. If there was going to be any argument, he wanted to be there to protect his wife. The judge had damned and cursed his daughter for days, so there could well be a battle in the house.
Denis found the women seated in three chairs at a dining table across whose surface were scattered playing cards and dominoes. The judge had taken up a position of superiority near the fireplace, chest and stomach pushed outwards, hands clasped behind his back. There was a deafening silence in the room.
The big man cleared his throat. ‘Are you improving, Louisa?’
‘Yes, thank you, dear.’
Helen shook her head so slightly that the movement was scarcely noticeable.
‘The air will do you good,’ pronounced the embodiment of authority.
‘We are all well, Father,’ said Helen.
The judge did not look at his daughter. ‘We have done a little sailing, Denis and I. It’s quite easy once one grasps the basics. Denis?’
Denis hated the yacht. ‘Yes, not as difficult as I thought.’
‘We’ll make a sailor of you yet,’ promised Spencer.
There followed another silence. Helen folded her arms and stared hard at her father. ‘We are better here than at Lambert House,’ she said. ‘There’s been a dreadful atmosphere there just lately.’
The judge shifted his weight from foot to foot. Had she spoken to Louisa, to Denis’s wife? Were these two women aware of the preposterous meanderings of Mabel Turnbull? What an ungrateful wretch that woman had been. He had kept her for years, had made sure that her dotage had been comfortable. Women were all the same – even when dead, they continued a torment.
‘We shall be eating soon.’ Helen’s tone was soft. ‘Unfortunately, we cannot ask you to stay, because we have not catered for company.’ She glanced at Louisa, whose downcast eyes and sad expression spoke volumes about inner misery. ‘Louisa needs to eat at regular intervals. In Morecambe, she will get well.’
He glowered. She was ordering him out of the house, was in charge of his every move. He needed those letters. A plan, half-formed thus far, was taking shape in his mind. There was always a way, he told himself. His treatment of Harry Timpson, which would be lenient, was going to pay off soundly. He could use a man capable of breaking and entering a well-locked jewellery store.
‘Please go,’ said Helen.
‘You haven’t won yet, madam,’ mumbled her father.
Helen’s cheeks glowed with anger. She wanted a blunt instrument and a chance to use it, needed to pound away at him until he died. The death sentence was still on the statute book in her personal legal system, and she was the only one qualified to apply it in this instance. The room was fading. She had promised herself that this would never happen again, but here it came, prompted by no dream, no sound, no warning. ‘I know what you did,’ she cried. ‘I know all of it.’
He staggered back. ‘Quiet, woman!’
But she saw him and only him. There was a long staircase, darkness, dragging, crashing. A woman bade her come away, but this time, she did not come away. ‘Eileen Grimshaw,’ she whispered.
He made for the door.
‘How much did you pay to be rid of her? What contribution did you make to the upkeep of your other daughter?’ Helen blinked, cleared her mind and focused on the present. ‘Agnes, I am so sorry.’
Agnes had slid down in her chair. ‘No,’ she whispered.
It was too late. Helen, knowing that she was doing damage, had no way of taking back what she had said. At least she remembered the episode this time, but that was no compensation for the harm she had done to her half-sister. ‘Meet your daughter, Father. I intended not to tell you until after the birth,’ she said to Agnes.
Agnes shot out of her chair, reached the judge in two strides, raked her nails down both sides of his face. Denis grabbed his wife and pulled her away into a corner. ‘Stop it, love,’ he begged. ‘Come on, this is doing you no good at all.’
‘My mother died,’ she screamed. ‘And my Pop and Nan were left to bring me up. They were poor. You left them poor. God, I’d rather have anyone but you as a father.’ Did Pop know? Surely not. Surely, he would not be making a scaled-down copy of Lambert House if he knew that the customer was the one who had fathered his granddaughter? Silly little thoughts tumbled about in her mind, a million questions seasoned by fury and loathing.
Helen was sobbing. ‘I wanted
to protect you, Agnes. I’ve known about this for only just over a week.’ She raised her head. ‘And I know the rest, Father. There’s enough there to send you to prison for life. Remember that. Remember and leave us alone.’
The judge wiped his bleeding face on a snowy handkerchief. ‘Let’s go, Denis,’ he muttered.
But Denis held on to his wife. He placed her in the chair she had just vacated, strode across the floor and punched Zachary Spencer on the nose. The man fell back, his head striking a wall. Dazed, he struggled to his feet, eyes watering, face creased by fear.
Denis threw the keys on the floor. ‘Drive yourself home,’ he wheezed. ‘Stay away from me and mine, or, God help me, I’ll not be responsible for my own actions. Scarred lungs or not, I’ll beat the living shit out of you.’
The unwanted guest opened his mouth as if to speak, snapped it closed almost immediately. His cheeks continued to bleed, as did his nose. He retrieved the keys before continuing to mop his bloodied countenance. Unfit to drive, he stumbled from the house and sat in his car. She had won. The damned woman had won – unless he could retrieve the letters. If he could get his hands on those, Helen might be disposed of quite easily via the mental hospital – who would listen to her there?
Who would listen? The doctors would. No matter what, he was almost cornered, but he could, at least, make an effort to retrieve those papers from Henshaw & Taylor. Harry Timpson was his best chance. God, he hoped his face would heal before the session.
Inside the house, Agnes rocked back and forth in her chair. The baby, too, was mobile, as if the shock had affected the space in which he or she lived. She could not believe it, would not believe it. His skin was under her nails and his blood ran in her cold veins. Nan and Pop had laboured all those years to provide for a child whose father was one of the richest men in Lancashire. ‘I have to wash my hands.’ Agnes fled.
Denis’s breathing righted itself after a few minutes. He was angrier than he had ever been in his whole life. That thing was Agnes’s father. His knuckles ached from the blow he had delivered to the nose of a High Court judge. The job was gone. Agnes had to be cared for, as did the unborn child. Agnes needed more than money. He followed her path to the bathroom.
The Judge's Daughter Page 24
