Mrs Midnight and Other Stories

by Oliver, Reggie

  ‘Alice was the daughter of Henry Southern, a relatively prosperous physician in the town of Ramsgate in Kent. When Alice was nine, her mother, to whom she was deeply attached, died, but within a year Dr Southern was married again. His bride was a Miss Danby who had been appointed as governess to young Alice in the Southern household during the final year of Alice’s mother’s life. There had, naturally, been rumours that an improper relationship had sprung up between Dr Southern and Miss Danby during the first Mrs Southern’s lifetime, but nothing was proved and it was fiercely denied by both parties concerned. Very soon after the marriage, the second Mrs Southern gave birth to twins, a boy and a girl. It was at this point that young Alice’s troubles truly began. The Southerns, by all accounts, doted on the new arrivals to the almost complete exclusion of young Alice. Her place in the household slipped almost to that of a servant. She was expected to defer in everything to her stepmother and her half-siblings. The room she once occupied in stately solitude was appropriated as the nursery for the younger offspring, and she suffered the indignity of having to share a bedroom with the scullery maid.

  ‘The twins were a little over three years old when one morning they disappeared. The nursery maid, much criticised for idleness and inattention at the trial and afterwards, had been sleeping in a little bedroom adjoining the nursery. On waking she came into the nursery to find that they had vanished from their cots. A search was instituted and the remains of the two infants were finally found stuck down a disused outside privy. The bodies had been much cut about, as if they had been victims of a savage attack with a knife, but death itself in each case had been caused by strangulation. They had both been garrotted with a length of scarlet silk ribbon which had been left tied around their little throats. It had been a full moon on the night of the disappearance which no doubt aided the abduction.

  ‘The ribbon was very soon identified as identical to some in Mrs Southern’s workbox. The police were therefore looking for an assassin within the house.

  ‘Suspicion fell first on the wretched nursery maid, but it was realised that she was quite incapable of such a calculated act of viciousness. Very soon the police were interrogating Alice, because it had been found that a nightshift of hers was missing. It was conjectured that this item of clothing must have become stained with blood during her frenzied attack on the children and had to be disposed of. Many people however thought it was quite impossible for a young girl of thirteen to have lifted two young children from their cots and then destroyed them in such a way. Alice calmly denied all responsibility for the crime during police interrogations. Her composure was seen by some as proof of innocence, by others as evidence of a calculating heartlessness. Finally the matter was settled by the discovery of the shift, buried beneath some laurel bushes in the grounds of Dr Southern’s house. It was stained with the children’s blood. There was a short trial during which Alice continued calmly to maintain her innocence but to no avail. She was too young to hang, so was condemned to a prison sentence of ‘no less than twenty five years’. Those are the bare facts. It is now twenty two years since those incidents during which she has maintained a complete silence about them, neither confessing nor denying her guilt.’

  There was a pause in which the world of Brighton was restored to me, the slap of sea, the laughter of children. During Father Devereux’s recital, bald as it was, I had entered a dark place, shut away from the open air. I had felt the pangs of hatred, jealousy and despair; I had almost seen the blood and the scarlet ribbon cutting into the soft childish flesh.

  ‘I have met Alice at Hurst Prison, and talked with her,’ said Father Devereux. ‘She is now a woman of thirty five, quiet, sensible, a model prisoner by all accounts. Her artistic skills are considerable and she has been put in charge of the mosaics for my sacristy.’

  ‘Did she talk about the past?’

  ‘She did not, and I made no effort to bring the matter up. We must, as the bard says, “use all gently”. I spoke to her in general terms of the unfailing love of Our Saviour, Jesus Christ, and of the possibility of redemption by His blood, and she responded well. She seems to have read and studied the Bible very intently. I then spoke about the beauty of the sacraments. I did not talk specifically about the sacrament of penance, but I think she understood.’

  ‘You want her to confess?’

  ‘My dear man, I do not want her to do anything. I simply want God’s will to prevail, and that I believe must involve a full act of contrition on her part.’

  ‘I suppose she would have a better chance of being released if she confessed.’

  ‘You must try not to be cynical. It is the sign of an immature mind.’

  ‘I was merely pointing out—’

  ‘Of course you were, and I do not reproach you. All I am saying is that I believe I—perhaps both of us in the future—have business with this lost soul. The outcome we can safely leave in God’s hands. . . . What a pretty child that is playing on the beach there below the pier! Such innocence! How I should like to pat those golden curls. And is that her father with her? It must be. Such an obvious sinner. Do you see the half bottle of gin poking out of his coat pocket? Sometimes I come to this bench, just to watch and weep. Oh, Brighton! Brighton. . . !’

  I knew which part of the gospels he might have quoted next—for Brighton, substitute Jerusalem!—and was greatly relieved when he refrained.

  Maundy Thursday 2nd April 1885

  Three elderly ladies and one old gentleman are my usual companions at early communion. I have come to love this quiet sacrament: the dim light of the sanctuary lamp, the weight of incense in cold air, the slow opening of the chrysalis of dawn. I feel most myself at these times because, paradoxically, I am least myself. I have no opinions to deliver in a sermon, no exercise of musical or vocal prowess, no counsel to give. I have only some words, not of my making, to say quietly, words I know so well I could say them in my sleep. In a sense I do. My ordinary self sleeps while my inner self is alive in the words of the liturgy. This morning I had served the mass (as Father Devereux likes to say) almost in a trance which is why I gave a violent start as I entered the sacristy after the service to find Father Devereux standing there. His eyes were shining and he too seemed to be in a state of exaltation. He was holding a letter in his hand.

  ‘It came by post this morning,’ he said. ‘Alice Southern has agreed to make a full private confession to me of her sins. Afterwards she will write out and sign an unreserved acknowledgement of her crimes for the authorities. She will make her Easter Communion in the prison fully shriven, as white and innocent in the eyes of God as the day she was born.’

  When I had put down the cup and paten I shook his hand, not knowing what else to do.

  ‘Thank you, dear man. Thank you. Our prayers have been answered. I believe Miss Southern has developed into a very exceptional young lady. I have been speaking to her and it is clear to me that she has a most remarkable prayer life. The miseries heaped on her childhood have been turned by the alchemy of the Holy Spirit into some very astonishing spiritual gifts and charisms. Of course,’ he said, checking himself, ‘one must tread carefully, but I believe that with the right spiritual director she may travel far along a path that few tread. You know, she has spoken to me more than once about entering an enclosed order of Anglican Nuns upon her release.’

  ‘Isn’t it a little premature of her to be talking of that already?’

  ‘Perhaps, perhaps. But hope is a precious thing, and a great virtue.’

  This afternoon his carriage takes him to Hurst and Miss Southern will be shriven. I cannot explain why I do not share his joy.

  Tuesday 7th April 1885

  Workmen arrive to fit the mosaic floor into the sacristy. The design is relatively simple, and is mainly in black and white. There is a key pattern border, most of which will be obscured by vestment cupboards and the like and so will not be seen; then in the centre is a circle within a square in black on white and in the black circle the white Chi Rho sym
bol of Christ. The only elements of colour are to be found within the spandrels between the circle and the square which encloses it. In these four triangular spaces are the winged heads of four golden haired cherubs, and I must admit they have been done most beautifully; the gradations in the flesh tones have been very minutely observed. One thing that puzzles me is that the necks of the cherubs which are just shown each have a line of scarlet running around them. The line may be designed to indicate a mere crease in the flesh, but this does not seem to me to be the case. It looks to me as if their necks had been tied around with a length of scarlet thread, or ribbon. I tried to indicate this oddity to Father Devereux, but he ignored me.

  Thursday 30th April 1885

  My dreams are always most vivid at the full moon. I cannot tell why this is. Last night it was a full moon, and I dreamed that I was in my night-shirt and bare feet standing in St Simeon’s. Shafts of pale moonlight bathed the vast heights of the church in sepulchral luminescence. I was standing outside the door of the sacristy from which I could hear the sound of weeping and whimpering, as if many children were engaged in communal mourning over their short lives. Then, as one is in dreams, I felt myself compelled towards the door of the sacristy which I entered. Inside I found I had difficulty standing up: the floor was damp, uneven, unsteady and somehow soft. Something yielded gently to my bare feet. I looked down and saw that, beneath a thin film of water, I was treading upon the faces of dead children, wide-eyed, golden haired, cherubic. I felt their little dead mouths kiss my feet. Then the slow murmur of a thousand whimpering infants began again and in my terror I hurled myself out of sleep. Most of my bedclothes had slipped to the ground and my bare extremities were exposed to the chill night air. I was sweating profusely.

  At breakfast Father Devereux is very hearty. He remarks that I look rather ‘under the weather’.

  ‘Never mind,’ he says, ‘I have a jaunt for you this afternoon. You are coming with me to Hurst Prison. It is a pleasant enough drive and it is time you joined me in my work there. We shall be taking tea with a rather remarkable young lady.’

  He was so buoyed up with the idea that he seemed oblivious of my dismay.

  To my surprise I rather enjoyed the drive out to Hurst. It was a fine spring day and Father Devereux read from a prayer book the whole way, so I was undisturbed by conversation.

  If it were not for the high walls, and the monumental gatehouse Hurst might be taken for a sanatorium rather than a prison. Its grounds are extensive and well kept, and though the main buildings in red brick have an institutional air about them they are not oppressive. We were met by the Governor and the Chaplain whom Father Devereux treated with the utmost respect. The Chaplain responded a little warily, I thought. I had the feeling that there had been an element of professional rivalry in the past, but that the issue had been resolved, somewhat in Father Devereux’s favour.

  Conditions within were Spartan, but not dingy. Presently we were shown into a room with a south facing bay window where, at a table sat the most notorious murderess of our times.

  There is nothing exceptional about Alice Southern. She is neither beautiful nor ugly, and she has a simple, honest face such as I would like to see on a wife of mine if I ever marry. The plainness of her prison garments did not conceal the fact that her figure is well-formed and mature, and might, in other circumstances, attract admiration.

  She looks younger than her thirty-five years, though perhaps it would be truer to say that she seems to belong to no particular age. Her skin is pale, but smooth and unblemished. The only indication that she has lived a less than contented life is to be found in her mouth which is long, thin-lipped and has been formed into a perfect downward bending curve, a kind of permanent smile in reverse. Her eyes are dark and deep set. I could read nothing into them except that, as soon as Father Devereux entered the room, her look became fixed on him and barely left his face the whole time we were there. When we were introduced she gave me only the briefest of glances and a curt nod.

  A young wardress entered with a tray of tea and Miss Southern stood up in her presence. When the wardress had gone Miss Southern served tea silently with the composure of a practised hostess. It was Father Devereux who broke the silence.

  ‘I have brought you what you asked for, my dear.’

  From the folds of his cloak Father Devereux brought forth a sheaf of papers and handed them to Miss Southern who laid them out eagerly on the table. I will not say she smiled exactly, but the sullen corners of her mouth became wrinkled in an attempt to show delight.

  I craned my neck to see what had given her such pleasure and was astonished by what I saw. They were architects’ ground plans and elevations of St Simeon’s Church and our Rectory in Albion Street. Miss Southern must have noticed my amazement because she briefly addressed a few remarks in my direction.

  ‘I like to form a picture in my mind of where you both live and work and worship, you see. I hope that one day, by God’s Grace, I shall visit it in the flesh so to speak, but, in the meantime, I can at least, in spirit, dwell with you sometimes, even pray before your altar, or attend to you in the sacristy. It is an inexpressible comfort to me to know that my—our floor is being trod by your feet.’ I think I shuddered a little.

  ‘My dear,’ said Father Devereux, ‘You must not let your fancy run away with you.’

  ‘No, Father. You are quite right. I shall not. But even the vilest sinners amongst us may hope. I know that I am redeemed, not through any virtue of my own, but solely through the blood of Jesus Christ, and the intercession of the Blessed Virgin.’

  Her speech was low, even and ladylike. There was not a hint of unfeminine assertion about it; yet I could not help feeling that everything she said was a recital. I could imagine her preparing all her speeches meticulously in her cell beforehand.

  For about ten minutes Father Devereux and she were engaged in a rather dull conversation about parish news and ecclesiastical affairs in general. Miss Southern listened eagerly to Father Devereux’s news from beyond her walls, and occasionally asked questions which showed that she was an attentive and intelligent listener. Nevertheless, I felt sure that there was something else she was waiting for, far more important to her than church matters. Finally, it came.

  ‘My dear Alice,’ said Father Devereux, ‘I have made up my mind to write to the Home Secretary about your case.’ Miss Southern gave a little gasp. ‘Now, my dear, I have warned you. All this will take time. I must gather support. My word alone is not sufficient.’

  ‘But you know the Prime Minister, Mr Gladstone!’

  ‘We are acquainted; he has attended divine service at my poor church, but do not underestimate the power of reaction and the unthinking prejudice of the great masses. These things sway events far more than great ones choose to imagine.’

  I watched them as they talked together. Her eyes were fixed on his and if Father Devereux made the slightest move, even if it was a mere inclination of the head, her own movement mirrored it in the minutest detail. To an outside observer it could have looked like mockery, but I sensed that it had a deeper purpose. Twice Father Devereux half rose to leave, but Miss Southern held him in her glance, spoke and compelled him to sit down again. The second time she did this I saw a little frown of annoyance wrinkle Father Devereux’s brow. Miss Southern, I believe, noticed it too because the next time he rose to leave she dropped her gaze, releasing him from her spell. We said our farewells and walked to the door. Just as we reached it Father Devereux turned back impulsively and said:

  ‘Do not despair, my dear. We shall do our very best for you, and when you are released, you must come to live with us, and enrich our lives. You shall be the belle of Brighton. We will put the roses back in your cheeks. Dr Brighton shall do his work!’

  I could not help feeling that these were not wise words, and I suspect that Father Devereux felt so too, because he was silent until we were in the carriage and on our way back to Brighton.

  ‘Do you not think that Miss
Southern is a very remarkable young woman?’ he said at last. I agreed that this was so.

  ‘My dear man, I would like to beg a favour of you,’ said Father Devereux, his eyes fully on mine. ‘I would like you to write to your Uncle, the Bishop of Calcutta, explaining the circumstances, Miss Southern’s contrition, the fact that she is a model prisoner, the length of her sentence already served, and asking for his support in petitioning for her release.’

  ‘Would the request not be better coming from you?’

  ‘Ah, no, you see, my dear fellow, for two reasons. In the first place the Bishop and I, as you know, are old friends. There are certain ties of obligation between us which I would not like to be seen to . . . presume upon. You understand me? No. Perhaps it is better that you do not understand me. The second reason is that I believe the time is ripe for you to join me in this great work of redemption. You are a good young man, but I believe that your heart is not yet fully open to the loving work of God. This redemption shall also be your redemption.’

  I told him that I would write to my uncle the Bishop that very evening. Father Devereux put his hand on my knee and squeezed it very warmly. For the rest of the journey back to Brighton he was in the highest of spirits. He even sang me a comic song or two in his rich baritone voice, but where and in what circumstances he had heard and learned them, I cannot conceive.

  Thursday 14th May 1885

  We have gathered quite a number of distinguished supporters to our petition to release Miss Southern. They include my uncle the Bishop and several other eminent churchmen, but the forces opposing us, as Father Devereux had predicted, are considerable. We have received a number of very offensive letters, and the words MURDERER LOVER have more than once been chalked upon the pavement outside the Rectory. All these injuries Father Devereux has borne most cheerfully, but this afternoon, as we were walking by the West Pier, a woman spat at him. She was a most respectable looking woman too, and she was accompanied by her equally respectable husband—I assume it was her husband—a small man with a large moustache and a brown bowler hat. He seemed quite untroubled by his partner’s action. Father Devereux tried to make light of the incident, saying that the lady must be a Presbyterian, or, at any rate, very Low Church, but I could tell he was disturbed. On our return to the Rectory he went straight into his study, shutting the door behind him.