He came, as arranged, at two o’clock. Agnes provided tea and biscuits, then sat for a few minutes arranging her thoughts into a semblance of order. It had to be done; things could not be left as they were.
‘In 1965,’ she began, ‘my husband and Judge Zachary Spencer died. Judge Spencer and his daughter, Helen, lived at Lambert House – Briarswood, as it’s called now. There was an explosion on the judge’s yacht in Morecambe Bay – something to do with fuel in the galley – and the yacht was blown to smithereens.’
‘Yes, I know. It must have been a very sad time for you.’
Agnes inhaled deeply. ‘It never happened.’
‘I beg your—’
‘It was a lie, a sham. Helen Spencer murdered her father and killed my Denis by accident. Helen’s father had done away with her mother thirty years earlier – that’s why she murdered him. There was written evidence of his crime and Helen had witnessed it herself, though she was very young at the time and needed her memory jogging. She wrote her life story in the form of a novel – the names are changed – and she waited until after her own death to let me know. I don’t blame her for that – she had trouble enough in her life. Now, I have to bear the weight for her.’
‘So – where are the bodies?’ He knew the answer before the question was fully aired. ‘They’re in the cellar, aren’t they? That’s why the specifications have gone awry.’
Agnes nodded. ‘It was arsenic. Denis never touched brandy, but he must have taken a drink of it on that particular evening.’ Hardly surprising, she thought, after the trouble of the previous day. ‘The yacht was blown up by some man from Wythenshawe – I suspect he had played a part in a robbery at a Manchester jeweller’s in the previous year. Someone drove the judge’s Bentley to Morecambe, Helen followed in her car and brought the driver back. The Bentley was found by police in Morecambe. They assumed that Denis had driven the judge to his yacht. The crew of the lifeboat said no remains would be found, as the yacht was in splinters.’
‘Bloody hell.’ Ian Harte pushed a hand through his hair.
‘My Denis hated that bloody yacht.’ Agnes shook her head. ‘We need the police,’ she said, her voice steady. ‘A wall was built in the cellar with both bodies behind it. The cellar was plastered over – Helen wrote all the details – and those two souls – one good, one evil – have haunted that place ever since.’
‘More evil than good,’ he said. ‘I’ve never had faith in such things, but the house is definitely creepy.’
Agnes smiled wanly. ‘Not evil when I’m there, though. If I go into the house, Denis looks after me.’ It all sounded silly in broad daylight, yet she now believed in those two spirits. ‘The police will have to deal with this, Mr Harte. Your client must step back for a while – the house cannot be sold just yet.’
‘Quite.’ He shivered. ‘You want me to do this for you?’
She nodded and handed him chapter seven. ‘It’s all in there. I know full well what needs to be done, yet I find myself incapable of doing it.’ Harry would be implicated. ‘You came along at just the right time, Mr Harte.’
He lowered his chin. ‘We’ve both been through the mill, Mrs Makepeace. I lost my mother to cancer just weeks ago, so I know what grief is. Yes, of course I’ll help.’ He scribbled on a scrap of paper. ‘That’s my home number and my mobile – call me any time. Joyce – that’s my missus – is a good listener, too. Don’t be alone, please.’
Agnes stood at the window and watched as Ian Harte drove away to instigate enormous trouble. When the car had disappeared, she pulled on a coat, picked up the keys to Briarswood, and left the house. She was going to say goodbye to Denis. This would probably be the last day of sanity for some time to come, and the big house was going to be out of bounds.
When she opened the front door, she smelled brandy. That was ridiculous, she told herself, because no one had lived here for many months. Dust motes floated in weak sunlight, and beautiful wood panelling seemed to scream for beeswax. She unlocked the door to the cellars and went down below ground level. With just a vague idea of the location of the bodies, she sat on an old crate and talked to Denis. ‘I didn’t know where you were, sweetheart. All these years, I’ve been going to Morecambe, but you were here all the time. He’s with you, isn’t he? Never mind. They’ll be getting you out soon, then you can go and have a decent burial in Tonge Cemetery.’
A slight breeze brushed her cheek. Where had that come from? Agnes stood up and walked towards the front of the house. She knew she was nearer to him. The cellars were made up of load-bearing walls that carried the pattern and shape of rooms above, yet the layout was slightly confusing for Agnes, who had never before descended to this level. Some areas were plastered, some were not. Several of the judge’s wines rested on wooden racks, and the remains of Pop’s model of Lambert House were jumbled in a corner.
Placing her hands against one of the plastered walls, she spoke again. ‘I know you’re inches away from me now,’ she said. ‘I think you’re under the judge’s study. There’ll be police and all sorts of people around soon, but I had to do it, had to tell. Helen meant me to release you from here. You’re not resting. Before you can rest, you have to become a crime scene.’ The smell of brandy came again. ‘Neither are you resting,’ said Agnes, her voice louder, ‘and you never will, you bad bugger. Helen did the right thing. Denis – you know she never meant to kill you.’
She left the house and stood outside for a while, remembering Kate, who had run the kitchen here for years. Gardens, neglected and overgrown now, had been cared for by Denis under the watchful eye of an Alsatian named Oscar. Louisa had breathed life into the place until her pregnancy; Helen, who had once believed herself to be in love with Denis, had matured and improved greatly under Louisa’s protection.
All gone now, all ground to dust, but never forgotten by Agnes. A thought struck her and she picked her mobile phone from one pocket, Ian Harte’s card from another.
He answered immediately. ‘Hello?’
‘There are blueprints with Granada TV,’ said Agnes. ‘My grandfather made a model of the house and, if you look at his drawings, you’ll see where the original walls of the cellar were. The judge and Denis were still alive when Pop built that huge doll’s house, so that should show you where any changes were made. He did the cellars as well as the upper part of the building, you see.’
He cleared his throat. ‘I don’t need the plans, Mrs Makepeace – I know exactly where the . . . the problem lies. I’m with the police now,’ he said softly. ‘They’ll be up there soon.’
‘I know.’ She understood what was coming. Feeling strangely peaceful, she wandered back to her cottage and telephoned her son. He needed to know what was happening and he promised to travel up as soon as possible. Agnes smiled. Denis would have been so proud of David, who fought daily battles on behalf of sick children. ‘You are proud, aren’t you?’ she asked a photograph on the mantelpiece. He was still here, would always be here.
Cars began to arrive, one stopping outside her house, others carrying on round the corner and up Skirlaugh Rise. There would be questions, of course, then inquests, then two funerals. Agnes would go to her husband’s service and burial, but her father could be put out with the council’s bins for all she cared.
She opened the door. A plain clothes officer who looked far too young for such responsibility entered the house. ‘Mrs Makepeace.’
‘Yes, that’s me.’
And so it began.
Skirlaugh was packed with reporters, photographers and television crews. Whenever Agnes left the house, she was accosted by seekers of sensational headlines. One man, who had entered her rear garden without permission, was dealt with very tersely. ‘Your sort may have chased Diana to her death, but pond life has no effect on me. Bugger off before I clock you with my poker.’ She brandished the brass-handled fire iron. The man stood his ground until she raised the weapon, then scrambled up the wall, almost screaming when brambles bit into his flesh.
/> After that small event, life moved slightly closer to normal. When she walked to the village shop, a policeman accompanied her, and she was grateful for that small service. Shopping further afield involved Lucy and her car, but they almost always managed to outwit their pursuers.
David arrived with his wife and children. The youngsters had to sleep in their parents’ room, but reporters melted into the ether as soon as they noticed a man in the cottage. David Makepeace, who was kindness itself when it came to his family and his job, had little time for tabloids or broadcasting journalists. Within twenty-four hours of his arrival, Agnes had the peace she had sought.
However, the story was front page news, not only in Lancashire, but throughout the whole of Britain. The nanny’s letter was mentioned, as was the illegitimate status of Agnes, second daughter to a corrupt judge. One daily tabloid gave graphic details of the state of the two bodies – it seemed that they had mummified because of airbricks at the tops of walls and the proximity of a huge, oil-fired boiler that heated the house. There was no escape. Television and radio chipped in. Pop was there once more in all his glory, a wonderful, difficult old man showing off his doll’s houses and his model of the then Lambert House. Tears flowed down Agnes’s cheeks as she listened to him lecturing on the subject of retirement. ‘You can retire when they put the last nail in your coffin lid,’ he pronounced.
Lydia, too, wiped away a tear. ‘Come on, Mum,’ she said. ‘Turn that damned thing off. David’s taking us out for a meal.’
‘People will stare,’ said Agnes. Then she raised her head. ‘Let them,’ she whispered. ‘There’s enough of Pop in me to tell them to bog off.’ So she went with her son, daughter-in-law and grandchildren to face the world. ‘I’m not leaving my cottage,’ she told David. ‘I’m not running away like Helen did.’
‘Nor should you,’ said Lydia. ‘But you know where we are if it gets too much. You could have your own flat in the basement.’
Agnes managed a smile. ‘No, love. My Denis was nearly forty years in a cellar – I think I’ll keep my head on the surface, thanks.’
The inquest was a nightmare. The police had gathered from Helen’s script and from Agnes that Harry Timpson, whose name had been changed by Helen, had been working for the Spencers in 1965, so he was summoned to answer for his actions. His name was called, but he never entered the room. The meeting was adjourned until the next day, giving the police time to force Harry to obey the order commanding him to attend both inquests.
David and Lydia, having spent two weeks in the north, had to travel back to London. They would return for Denis’s funeral, but David was needed by the sick. They made Agnes promise to visit as soon as the business was over, then left with their children to drive home to Islington.
Alone again, Agnes suddenly felt more isolated than ever. It had been an exhausting time for a woman no longer in the first flush of youth. ‘I’m old,’ she told a contestant on Who Wants to be a Millionaire. The Sky channels offered nothing better. There was a film named What Lies Beneath – she wasn’t going to look at that. So she tuned into a shopping channel to learn the virtues of foam mattresses and American hand-sewn quilts.
Denis’s body would be released for burial within days. She would be able to claim the watch he had worn and his mother’s rosary, which he had always carried in a pocket. ‘But you’ll rest soon,’ she promised. ‘Away from him, you’ll feel better.’
The evening dragged itself along on feet of lead. Agnes picked up some unopened mail, found an offer from a trashy newspaper whose editor wanted to publish Helen’s script for a six-figure sum. They could ask Millie, she thought before tossing the letter into a bin. The police held chapter seven while she owned the rest, so they could all bugger off, because Millie had been left just money and property.
Ian Harte arrived at nine o’clock. Aware that Agnes’s family had left for London, he wanted to check that Mrs Makepeace was safe and well.
‘They were mummified,’ she told him.
‘Yes.’
‘Did you see my Denis?’
He shook his head. ‘No one was allowed in. But a young policeman said your husband didn’t look as if he had been dead for long. They’ll let you see him if you like.’
Agnes looked at all the photographs in the room. ‘I can see him here,’ she said. ‘There’s no need for me to look at his body. I have a few of what they called his effects. Soon, I’ll get his watch and rosary – they’re enough for me.’
She was all right, Ian decided. He finished his cup of tea, said goodbye, then left for home.
It was half past nine. Agnes, having endured many half past nines and beyond, wondered why time had suddenly started to drag to the point of stopping. She could go and live in London with David and Lydia, but London was not for her. It was full of people who knew no one. She glanced through her window – did she know these people? Hardly. But she was on nodding terms with plenty of trees and pathways, and had even been known to greet a neighbour in the street. During the police enquiry, three women had taken the trouble to come to her door with home-made scones, pies and casseroles. She could and would make a life again.
It had been like a football match with a very long half-time, she supposed. That was how Pop had described the twenty-one years between the Great War and the Second – time for a butty and a cuppa, he had named the interval. Since Denis had died, Agnes’s life had been on hold. For a reason she failed to understand, the burial of his body would open a new chapter for her. ‘But not a chapter seven,’ she said aloud. ‘Never a chapter seven.’
The doorbell sounded. It was a quarter to ten. ‘Who is it?’ she called.
‘Me.’
‘Who’s me?’
‘Mags.’
Agnes froze. Harry would be with her. Harry was the man who had moved Denis’s body down to the cellar. He had also loved Helen and had betrayed poor Mags. ‘Are you alone?’ she managed eventually.
‘Yes. Very much so.’
Agnes opened the door. Mags, in the company of a small suitcase, stepped into the house. She placed the case on the floor, righted herself and spoke again. ‘He hanged himself, Agnes.’
‘What?’ A hand flew of its own accord to her throat. She swallowed hard. ‘Harry’s dead?’
Mags nodded.
‘Bloody hell. Come in – sit yourself down. Oh, my God – whatever next? Why, Mags?’
‘He knew he was guilty of helping to conceal the bodies – he was accessory after the crime. And Helen was his raison d’être. I must go back for the inquest, but I had to come and tell you myself. He won’t be at the court tomorrow, Agnes. The police know what’s happened. I am so tired.’
They sat for over an hour in a companionable silence that was familiar to both of them. Lucy had always been the noise-maker, Mags the quiet one, Agnes the go-between. Two elderly ladies gazed at a dwindling coal fire, each knowing what would happen next, neither needing to speak. Agnes knew that Mags wanted to come home; Mags knew that Agnes needed to share her living space with someone she knew and trusted.
‘Shall I put a bottle in your bed?’ Agnes asked finally.
‘Please.’
‘When everything’s done and dusted, you can choose your own wallpaper.’
Mags’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Next door’s selling up,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen the sign and you can put in an offer for me. We can knock through and make it one big house, or we can keep things as they are. But we’ll be together, won’t we?’
‘Course we will, kiddo. One for all—’
‘And all for one. With Lucy as our beloved nuisance, eh?’
That night, both slept well.
The Judge’s Daughter
RUTH HAMILTON is the bestselling author of eighteen previous novels set in the north-west of England. She was born in Bolton and now lives in Liverpool, and she writes about both places with realistic insight and dramatic imagery.
For more information on Ruth Hamilton and her books, see her website a
t:
www.ruth-hamilton.co.uk
www.panmacmillan.com
ALSO BY RUTH HAMILTON
A Whisper to the Living
With Love from Ma Maguire
Nest of Sorrows
Billy London’s Girls
Spinning Jenny
The September Starlings
A Crooked Mile
Paradise Lane
The Bells of Scotland Road
The Dream Sellers
The Corner House
Miss Honoria West
Mulligan’s Yard
Saturday’s Child
Matthew & Son
Chandlers Green
The Bell House
Dorothy’s War
First published 2007 by Pan Books
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an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
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ISBN 978-0-330-54204-3 PDF
ISBN 978-0-330-54203-6 EPUB
Copyright © Ruth Hamilton 2007
The right of Ruth Hamilton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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