by J. D. Oswald
‘Not to worry. One’s always anonymous in a Cathedral. Now, is there anything I can do for you?’
Mrs Barratt took a deep breath. ‘I wanted to tell you something. I heard you and the Superintendent talking about Doctor Chaloner.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Then someone told me he’d been murdered.’
‘Right again.’
‘I’m glad.’ The sorrow had gone from her eyes, replaced by glinting anger. ‘All the other girls will be too.’
‘Why?’
‘He wasn’t a ‘nice’ man. He might have looked it with his jolly red cheeks, and sounded it – laughing all the time with the midwives. So why did they all die? It weren’t natural.’
‘I don’t understand Mrs Barratt.’
‘All those babies. All dead. Weren’t natural.’
‘Do you mean…the girls at the Refuge? Their babies?’
‘Yes. All of them?’
‘All?’
‘Yes!’
‘Are you certain of that?’
She glanced away. ‘There might have been one or two who didn’t…’
‘So not all of them died?’
‘No,’ she said sulkily, ‘but…like I said, more than were natural.’
‘Mrs Barratt,’ Creswell interrupted, ‘I’m afraid I must ask if you lost your child at the Refuge?’
Mrs Barratt attempted an air of outrage; then her shoulders slumped. She nodded. Creswell guided her to the stone bench built into the wall of the nave aisle, choosing a place where they were hidden from view by an immense column, one of those carved with vertical lines so that it resembled bunched bamboo canes. He sat down next to her.
‘I was widowed you see,’ she said, in a haughty way that made Creswell wonder if her marriage had been entirely legal, ‘and my Dad wouldn’t have me back. Not that I wanted to go back. He’s a brute. So I had nowhere else to go.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I would have kept her. We’d have done alright. I could have got a job – you’ve seen my work - rented a little place…’
Creswell sighed; he had to say something. ‘The death of a child haunts us, Mrs Barratt, however short a time that child was in the world,’ he began. ‘We want someone to blame. But birth is a precarious business especially for those…those without life’s advantages.’
‘I only held her once. I can’t even remember her face.’ She began to sob quietly.
Creswell closed his eyes and pressed his back against the cold stone. He wanted to cry with her. Ten years ago he would have done. But he was more fortunate than Mrs Barratt: he could remember. Feathery black hair covering mottled skin; swollen cheeks marked by forceps; her mother’s grey-green eyes. When Lily died during her fifth night, he had been frightened at the strength of his own grief. It had faded over the years; Mrs Barratt’s would too, although he had observed that it often took longer for mothers. Mamie used to comfort herself by talking about God’s choice: God had chosen Lily to be with Him; God had chosen not to give them another chance. For Creswell, God did not come into it.
They sat together in silence until forced to their feet by the approach of a virger wielding a candle snuffer. Creswell took Mrs Barratt’s hand.
‘Thank you for seeking me out. I hope you feel a little easier in your mind. Shall I see you again in the congregation?’
‘I doubt it,’ she said.
26
Friday 12th December
Illumina. To Philippa, the word conjured up images of ancient spirits and the worshipping of sacred lights. And there was certainly something of the pagan about the scene before her. Candles flickering within recesses in the flint wall enclosing Meads; the bonfire like a giant’s game of pick-up sticks; reflected flames twining the dark tree trunks; boys with hypnotised reddening faces and hands sticky with mincemeat; red wine punch that relaxed the limbs and melted the brain; carols with the thinnest veneer of Christianity chosen for their rousing tunes: Good King Wenceslas; God Rest You Merry Gentlemen; The Holly and the Ivy; Deck the Halls.
She watched Doctor Thomas Godwin negotiating with the serving staff for two more servings of punch. He was not wearing his spectacles and without them his face looked open and approachable, vulnerable even. But there was a reassuring strength in his tall frame and wide shoulders. Frank, the head porter, who was behind Godwin in the queue, said something to the serving women who then proceeded to ladle out three large glasses. Godwin grinned at Philippa as he walked tentatively back to their chosen spot beneath the largest plane tree.
‘I thought she was going to refuse to serve me. “You’ve had two already,” she said. Frank gave her what for.’
Philippa laughed. ‘Imagine what reaction you’ll get if you ask for a fourth mince pie.’
‘Oliver Twist springs to mind.’
The choir struck up Ding Dong Merrily on High and Godwin began to hum – not one note was in tune. She could not help but giggle.
‘Sorry, was I humming? I may have been the only boy at school not to be invited to be in the choir. They positively forced me onto the rugby field instead.’
Beyond the bonfire, Dons and a few specially invited parents mingled, the occasional sullen boy in their midst, talked of or talked over. Except Digby who loitered willingly next to Alexander Tokarev, staring up at him admiringly. Tokarev still had the finger of suspicion hanging over him and everyone else kept their distance. Teresa Urchfont in contrast was the centre of attention. She was seated elegantly on a bench, encircled by young Dons. She gazed up at her husband as he waved his arms around animatedly.
Philippa looked around for Canon Strange, spotting him on the edge of the gathering. He stood with Dorothy Wing-Smyth, leaning toward her in that intimate way of his. Philippa was surprised to see Meg next to him, although the dog seemed unperturbed by the fire and only interested in a nearby table set with plates of mince pies. Suddenly Meg grabbed Dorothy’s umbrella, tugging at it with all her might. Strange remonstrated with her and the dog let go, placated by what could have been a morsel of pastry. Philippa noticed that Strange and Dorothy held each other’s gaze as they laughed. The laughter of old friends? It could be something more. He never laughed like that with her but then Dorothy was more his age, and still attractive, Philippa had to admit. Not in the sinuous way of Teresa Urchfont; Dorothy had a more straightforward handsomeness, her heart-shaped face reminding Philippa of an older version of the petite woman in Strange’s wedding photograph.
Dorothy waved in Philippa’s direction and led Canon Strange towards the tree. They nearly collided with Christopher’s wheelchair. It contained Prentis who was being pushed by two boys round and around the bonfire, churning up the ground in the process.
‘How nice to see you both here,’ Dorothy said, glancing from Philippa to Godwin and back. ‘Maybe you’ll work in practice together one day.’
‘I see Meg took a fancy to your umbrella,’ Philippa said hurriedly, feeling as self-conscious as when her father had praised her schoolwork in front of his friends.
‘I know, naughty dog.’ Dorothy gave Meg a friendly pat. ‘It was no matter. This one’s very old. I’ve lost my best duck-handled one somewhere.’
There was silence. Philippa stared into the bonfire’s glowing heart. When she looked away, everything around her seemed to be tinged with red.
‘I hear great things about your clinic, Doctor,’ Dorothy said.
‘Thank you,’ Godwin turned to Philippa, ‘we do what we can. Our war hero here at College gets his new leg on Monday and we treated young Albert Glasspool yesterday.’
‘Ah yes, poor Albert. Can anything be done?’
‘Not by me but he’s been accepted for Sidcup.’
‘That is good news. I’m told that what they do there is nothing short of miraculous.’
‘Not miraculous; it’s remarkable science certainly. They can rebuild Albert’s face at least, if not his life.’
Philippa noticed that Strange nodded approvingly at Godwin’s remark.
Prentis came streaking by in the wheelchair, now pushed by five boys. ‘Hello Canon, hello Nurse.’
‘Careful with that leg,’ Philippa called after him, ‘don’t get too close to the bonfire. It looks rather precarious.’
As if to confirm her words, the fire gave out a loud crack and burning branches tumbled from the crown, scattering embers across the grass. One of them landed on Philippa’s boot where it curled up and shrivelled like a fortune-telling fish.
‘Surely fixing his face is the first step to fixing his life?’ Dorothy continued.
Godwin shook his head emphatically. ‘Fixing his face cannot change the past. He may well return to his old job with the police in time, but as for other things…’
‘You mean his fiancé I suppose?’ Dorothy said. ‘Yes, that was sad.’
‘What happened to her?’ Philippa asked.
‘She fell pregnant just before Albert went to the Front,’ Dorothy said, lowering her voice, ‘and who are we to judge in the circumstances. To their credit, her parents stood by her – they’re so fond of Albert – but the girl was so sick during her pregnancy and they were so poor that she was forced to go to that awful Refuge. They were all devastated when the baby died. She’s never been the same since.’
‘What was the name of the girl?’ Strange asked.
‘I can’t recall offhand…a Scottish name I think.’
‘MacDonald?’
‘Yes, that’s right. How did you know?’
‘Oh I think I recall the family,’ Strange said.
‘Well, let’s leave these two in peace,’ Dorothy continued. ‘I’ll drop by next week if I may Philippa?’
‘Miss Lambert.’ Creswell Strange inclined his head towards Philippa and then followed Dorothy around the bonfire.
‘Canon Strange is an interesting man.’
She turned to find Godwin’s eyes upon her.
‘Yes, yes he is.’
‘There’s more to him than meets the eye I’d say. I could say the same about you, Philippa,’ he added softly.
She could not continue to look at him. Instead she stared again into the bonfire. The people moving about behind it were like the images on a photograph where someone has moved. One of them came into focus, a large man in a tweed suit standing at the front of the queue for the punch. He moved towards the fire. She saw George Elkin’s fleshy face glowing luridly in the light. With a gasp she stepped backwards into the semi-darkness beneath the tree.
‘Are you alright?’ Godwin asked, following her into the gloom.
‘I’ve…I’ve just remembered. I have to check on Christopher. He refused to go out in his chair. I don’t like to think of him left alone.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘No,’ she nearly screamed, ‘no, thank you. Take my glass would you and thank you for…You’ll come on Monday morning to fit Christopher’s leg?’
‘Yes, but…’
‘I’m sorry. I have to go.’
She stumbled across the lumpy grass to Sick House, glancing back at Godwin who was staring at her with a mixture of irritation and concern. She locked the door behind her. George hadn’t seen her. Had he?
27
Saturday 13th December
Creswell opened his eyes and explored his shadowy bedroom. Was he awake? Yes, he concluded, he was. The dream had left his body tingling and his mind disoriented. What had he been dreaming about? A sense of panic came back to him as he remembered. He had been opening door after door, finding a blank wall behind each one. Then he had been running; after that, nothing. He climbed out of bed, went to the window seat and opened the curtains. A luminous three-quarter sized moon, its scars prominent, hung low in the sky. It was framed by fast-moving smoky clouds, a scene that could have inspired a painting by Atkinson-Grimshaw. His mind appreciated the beauty presented to him, yet it did not cheer him. On the night Mamie died, he had stood in the garden of St Cross Hospital staring up at a moon such as this until he could not take any more.
He closed his eyes; he missed her still. Tears built up behind his eyelids. When at last he dared to open them, water emptied down his cheeks like sap from a cut tree. He felt so alone – no wife, no child, no mother, no father. He wished his parents had been there to advise him. His mother – his loving, kind, stern mother – would have made sure his stomach was full, then handed him his favourite book or a passage from the family bible. Whereas his father would have reminded him that work was a great antidote for grief, a principle he put into practice whenever one of his campaigns resulted in the loss of his men but which failed him on the death of his wife. Creswell was determined not to follow his father into inexorable decline. He wiped away the tears with his pyjama sleeve and tried to focus on Chaloner’s murder. What had he learned last evening? That another defenceless young woman had lost her baby in the care of the Refuge, and that her name was in the doctor’s file. Did that mean that Mrs Barrett’s fears were justified? He had no real evidence and yet…had he missed something significant? Something that someone had told him, Thomas Godwin or Dorothy Wing-Smyth perhaps? Dorothy…her delicate face and calm intelligent eyes reminded him of Mamie. Where Mamie had been quietly determined, Dorothy was more humorously strident. He recognised that he was attracted to her in a way that was more than platonic. It was a feeling that dismayed him; it was wrong but he had no idea how to prevent it.
As for Philippa…on the day of the Silence, he had agreed out of pity to let her assist with the Mundy case and because he imagined that Lily could have grown up to be like her. Then he had not been deceiving himself. And now? Had it been fatherly protectiveness that made him frown at the sight of Philippa and Dr Godwin standing so close together in the shadows beyond the bonfire? Best not to dwell on it. He had been neglecting the Mundy investigation; Philippa’s rather disenchanted eyes had told him that. She had suggested searching the Mundy’s house again. Why not - it could not do any harm. To intrude at the weekend would be uncalled for. He would wait until Monday – when Philippa would be engaged with Godwin and Christopher’s new leg – and take Harry Pipe with him instead. Harry would be a less troubling companion, to his conscience anyway.
He returned to bed and slept fitfully until nine o’clock. When he drew the curtains again, it was onto a street dank from early morning rain. A line of chauffeur-driven cars had taken up position on the far side of the road, porters busy loading trunks onto the luggage racks. Small groups of boys hung around on the pavement, hands in pockets, kicking in the gutter. Soon their parents would return from chatting to the Dons and the boys would be ushered, one-by-one, into their cars, giving their friends a nonchalant wave. Creswell could remember those end-of-term moments: embarrassed pleasure at seeing his parents, reluctance to leave his friends, the pressure not to show any emotion. Once the school went down, Kingsgate Street and the College buildings took on a subdued pensive character. It always felt too quiet.
He had left the papers from the Refuge lying on the windowsill. He picked them up and flicked through the pages unseeingly. A name came into focus, stark like a photographic negative: Clay. He read the complete sentence: Miss Clay also in attendance. He turned the page: the same name again. Then he remembered. Clay was Grace Mundy’s maiden name. So here was a link between Grace Mundy and Doctor Chaloner. But what did it mean?
28
Monday 15th December
With the boys gone for the holiday, Philippa breakfasted late, joining a few solitary Dons in the dining hall, all with a newspaper or exercise book spread out in front of them. A smell of damp wool and frying hung in the air. She had decided not to eat in her room any longer. That glimpse of George Elkin’s face at Illumina preyed constantly on her mind and she felt safer in the company of others.
Brisk steps sounded on the wooden floor. ‘Ah, there you are Philippa,’ Dorothy Wing-Smyth called out. ‘I’ve been looking for you in Sick House.’ She slid along the bench so that she sat opposite to Philippa. ‘That doesn’t look too appetising,’ she
said pulling a face.
Philippa felt obliged to defend her breakfast of congealed egg, black pudding and thick toast, the burnt edges concealed by butter. ‘It’s quite tasty actually.’
‘If you say so…Isn’t it marvellous! The day has finally come. Christopher must be impatient for Doctor Godwin to arrive.’
‘Yes he is,’ Philippa replied, ‘although he tries not to show it.’ In truth, Dorothy looked the more excited. ‘I hope he doesn’t get too disheartened the first time he tries to walk on his new leg. He’ll need lots of practice.’
‘Oh he’ll be fine,’ Dorothy said rather dismissively. ‘Now tell me, where did you rush off to on Friday night? Your Doctor was left looking quite forlorn.
Philippa took a bite of toast. ‘I had to check on Christopher.’
‘For the rest of the evening? Godwin said you looked as if you’d seen a ghost.’
‘Not a ghost. It was…worse. I saw George Elkins.’
‘At Illumina? What was he doing there?’
‘He must…’ Philippa’s voice began to break. ‘He must have been looking for me.’
‘Nonsense. As I said before, there’s no doubt some perfectly straightforward explanation. He is a baronet and a magistrate after all. He was probably invited to Illumina by some big-wig.’
‘I wish I could believe that. I didn’t tell you before but someone went to the Bursar and told him who I really was. It must have been George. Who else could it have been?’
‘I see. What did the Bursar do about it?’
‘Mrs Urchfont persuaded him to let me stay. But what if George has decided to try again?’
‘Well let’s not jump to conclusions although I admit it’s a little disconcerting. Why don’t you write to those solicitors? Ask them to assure you that they’ve kept your whereabouts secret.’
‘Yes I could do that,’ Philippa’s mind clutched at the suggestion. ‘Yes, I will, thank you.’
‘Don’t mention it. Everyone deserves an opportunity to escape their past. Who knows what we might become if we can put the past behind us?’ Dorothy’s self-assurance seemed to abandon her for a moment as an expression of anxiety flitted across her face. She reached into her handbag. ‘I carry these around to remind me. You’re the first person I’ve shown them to for many years.’ She placed two yellowing photographs on the bench: a group of bare-footed children in front of a terraced house, and a smiling young woman paddling in the sea, her skirt hoisted to her knees. Both photographs had faint script written along the border in pencil. ‘This is me,’ Dorothy pointed to the smallest child, ‘outside our house in Southampton. We slept four to a bed. And this is me at Ryde. My husband Robert took the photograph the day before he left for South Africa. We’d escaped on the ferry for the day. He wasn’t my husband then of course. We married years later after both his parents had died. They didn’t approve you see.’
