by Ruth Wade
Table of Contents
PART I
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
PART II
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
PART III
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
PART IV
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
PART V
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
WALLS OF SILENCE
RUTH WADE
Copyright
Copyright © 2018 Ruth Wade
The right of Ruth Wade to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2018 by Bloodhound Books
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
www.bloodhoundbooks.com
Also, by Ruth Wade
Ruth Wade also writes the May Keaps series as BK Duncan:
Book 1 Foul Trade
Book 2 Found Drowned
Dedication
For those I love – you know who you are.
It follows from this account that freedom is an ideal
which can never be completely realised, and this
ideal coincides with that of self-realisation.
All epigraphs taken from
A Manual of Psychology
George F. Stout (1929)
EAST SUSSEX, ENGLAND
WINTER SOLSTICE 1927
Voluntary action is to be sharply discriminated from impulsive action, and deliberation from conflict of impulsive tendencies.
He is so close she can smell his cologne. It has the same spicy vegetation fragrance as the rope. The rope that is around her neck, chafing her skin and pulling at the hairs entangled in its braid. The chair beneath her stockinged feet is smooth, the wood unyielding under her heels.
Please don’t ask me to do this.
He registers no surprise that she’s spoken. Perhaps the words have stuck in her throat. Or perhaps she is dead already and this is one of those end-of-the-tunnel moments she’d read about. Only she can feel the soft breeze on her skin, hear an owl screeching off into the distance. Sense the passing of time. She licks her lips.
Edward, I don’t want to. I thought I did, but I don’t.
He is stroking her face now, a curved-knuckle slide from cheekbone to chin. It’s been such a long time since a man touched her. Will they finally take things further? Consummate the stretched-out longing that had prickled under her skin for decades.
‘Self-murder is not an ignoble act, Edith, because it originates from a position of power. Of control. Of choice.’
I no longer choose to do this!
Her voice is like thunder in her ears. His expression remains calm. She could move. Reach out her hand. Feel his flesh beneath his shirt. Show him that is what she craves. That she still loves him despite everything. Always has, and always will. He is too much a part of her not to. Except her arms are like tree trunks at her side. Extensions of the thick branch above her head. The one he’s looped the rope around.
‘There is no other way; you know that, don’t you? Betrayal is the worst of all the sins they left out of the Bible. Could it be that God didn’t see fit to mention it because He didn’t consider it deadly? But I do. Because of you they’ll extinguish my existence without a second thought. A judicial killing. An eye for an eye. And that’s hardly fair as I don’t consider I’ve done anything wrong. I’d put in a plea of self-defence if they’d let me. But they won’t. The stars are out already, Edith. Can you see them? I took the trouble once to learn the constellations but many of the patterns and shapes elude me.’
He steps away from under the holm oak’s thick canopy, lowers himself onto the snow-covered ground and lies there, his hands behind his head, elbows bent, as if moon-bathing.
‘It’s as well you don’t move for now, so I’ll describe those I can remember. There’s the three in a line – Orion’s Belt – and above that is Gemini, the twins holding hands into eternity, Castor and Pollox as their heads. Which is the girl and which is the boy, I wonder? They’ve different shapes so they must be one of each ... Then if you allow your eye to travel back to Orion, to the left you’ll find the bright and showy Sirius commonly known as the Dog Star because it forms part of Canis Major. I’ve heard it said by fools and madmen that your future is written in the stars. There’s a little patch of empty sky directly above the cottage’s chimney. I’d like to think of it as reserved especially for you – your light, your essence. Except it will shine brighter than all those around because we are kindred spirits, entwined souls, and when I join you our star will blaze with the power of two lives cut short. Two energies that never lived long enough on this earth to burn themselves out.’
I can save you. Let me save you. I can take the blame. I’ll tell them that it was all my doing. That I misled them in my confusion. You’ll be free, and they might find it in their hearts to spare me because of ... because of ... They know the truth now. I’ve always known, deep down I’ve always known.
‘Do you have any last words for the world at large, Edith? Maybe I should have insisted you leave a note setting out all those things you are so sorry for. People like to be able to wrap things up with a neat apology, and they do say confession is good for the soul. The Papists believe a deathbed repentance the most precious of the lot but I’m of the mind it comes down to trying to get in God’s good books at the very last minute. A cowardice of conviction. Or lack thereof. Only none of us can know that for sure, can we? I mean, we get but one stab at shuffling off this mortal coil and no one has ever come back to tell us what fate awaited them on the other side – despite what a fantasist like that duffer Conan Doyle might delude himself with. Nevertheless, you still have time to clear your conscience over the spilling of our secret. For which you are wholly re
sponsible and I should like to hear you admit the fact.’
I’m sorry, Edward. I’m truly, truly sorry. But I wasn’t myself, I was ill. They locked me up and gave me drugs. The doctor kept pressing me to tell him things, playing tricks with my mind, and I have no idea what I said. If I did tell them about you then it was an unwilling act under duress. I promise I’ve never intentionally done anything to harm you. Why would I? How could I? And haven’t I been made to suffer enough already for everything that’s happened?
She watches him move his long limbs in a languid stretch. Then he gets to his feet, listing slightly as the muscles in his gammy leg take their share of his weight.
‘This is for the best, Edith. The best for the both of us. Far neater than any other ending I can imagine – you, too, I expect. Although I don’t believe you ever possessed the same breadth of vision I did. See this as a simple matter of returning things from whence they came. Equations have to be balanced and two into one just won’t go. That’s more your area of expertise than mine but even mathematics-dunces like myself can appreciate the impossibility of splitting certain fractions evenly. We need to keep things whole. The circle cries out to be completed. One shatters perfect harmony at one’s peril ...’
She listens to his voice growing softer as he increases the distance between them.
Until we are reunited, my dear Edward.
And she steps off the chair.
PART I
FLETCHING VILLAGE
SEPTEMBER 1926
... no one can directly observe what is passing in the mind of another. He can only interpret external signs on the analogy of his own experience. These external signs always consist in some kind of bodily action or attitude.
CHAPTER ONE
The face was ugly in repose. Saliva oozed from the blubbery lips to collect in saggy neck folds; the crumpled-paper skin, leached of colour by the long years of incarceration, had the transparency of a maggot’s. The closed eyelids pulsated a little to accompany the old man’s internal wanderings. Under the bedclothes the sparse body was outlined like a tomb effigy – a warrior knight perhaps or a benevolent king. But he was neither of those things, not possessing the righteousness of one, nor the compassionate humanity of the other. He’d had a reputation for greatness in his time, this old, old man. But one should not be permitted to live long enough to see achievements turned to dust and ashes, for pathetic glories to come home to roost. It was unnatural. He was a travesty of nature.
Flexing his fingers in the tight leather of his gloves, he breathed in the odour of soiled linen, the metallic tang of medication, and the musty sweetness of decaying flesh. The old man twitched in his sleep, his hand grasping at the blanket as if to pull himself back into consciousness. Good. This was what he wanted: for him to know his fate. But not yet, not quite yet.
Easing the pillow from under the head, he moved around to the side of the bed and bent forward like a hospital visitor eager to be in the line of sight. He pressed down on the barely moving chest. The old man stuttered a breath. His eyes opened. He smiled. Not in recognition, that wasn’t possible, but with the unfocused sentiment of a baby.
Slowly, slowly, like trapping a cockroach, he inched the pillow down towards the face that was all trust now, the mind locked behind the features waiting for a gentle act of ministration or comfort. And then the moment that made every second of his existence worthwhile: a flash of terrible realisation from the rheumy eyes as a spark of intelligence flickered up from some recess of the thought-to-be-atrophied brain. Would he speak? Would either of them speak? But what was there that could be said when both knew the inevitability of what was about to happen?
With a heave of emotion that could only be described as joy, he pressed the pillow down hard, laughing in his release as the old man quivered away his remaining time on this earth.
*
Edith woke with a shudder. This one had possessed more of the quality of a memory than a dream. But that was hardly surprising; she’d been having them on and off for a year now, only the deepening clarity of the sensory details marking the passage of time. The light seeping through the gap in the curtains was milky. It was early, the birds not yet full-throated in their acknowledgment of a new day. She untwisted her nightgown from around her legs before sliding out from under the bedclothes to place her feet on the cold lino. Then she stripped off, being careful to avoid her reflection in the mirror as she turned towards the washstand; try as she might to find solace in believing that a concern with appearance was nothing more than the product of shallow vanity, she didn’t like to be confronted by her lack of feminine contours.
Although at thirty-six it no longer mattered as much as it had done, she could still be taken unawares by numbing regret that the fire had destroyed her body’s ability to develop normally. The nerve-endings in the scars on her arms and torso prickled with something too mute to be called pain as she dabbed at them with the soap-scummed flannel. Paying the especial attention she reserved for the hot area between her legs, she wondered when it was she’d first heard of the unholy connection between cleanliness and godliness. Not with her mother’s milk surely? The lesson must have been inculcated later, in the aftermath, when she was a semi-orphan and the irreparable damage had been done.
Once dressed in her never-varying attire of tweed skirt, plain white blouse, lisle stockings and black lace-up shoes, Edith mentally prepared her shopping list as she walked downstairs. She needed ingredients for the cakes she’d promised Martha Culpert would be her contribution to the church bring-and-buy. When the new vicar had arrived in the village six months ago, it had been patently obvious his young wife needed help and support to cope with the demands of her role – the reverend’s head being so high in the clouds he hardly noticed when it was raining – and so Edith had volunteered herself into organising the woman. Before long it was clear that even that wasn’t enough and she found herself changing library books for the housebound; ensuring the Sunday School ran on time and was well attended; filling-in for the teacher at the parish school over at Cowden when occasion demanded; and being in-charge of the flower rota.
Accumulating a reputation as a rock in the matter of good works was preferable to her previous one of the stuck-up daughter of a demented old man, but other people’s welfare was exhausting. No wonder she always faced the mornings more tired than when she went to bed. Except that hadn’t been the case last night. Last night they had been throwing stones at her window again, causing her to wake up slicked with fear-laced sweat. An itchy feeling that something else might have disturbed her sleep this time pricked at the back of her mind. She pushed her arms into the sleeves of her coat as she tried to remember. No, it had definitely been them up to their usual tricks. A firm line needed drawing and today was as good a day as any to let them know that, unlike hapless Martha Culpert, Edith Potter knew how to recognise when the rot was setting in.
CHAPTER TWO
Edith paused to breathe in the scent of her favourite rose bush before pulling the garden gate closed behind her. Dust puffed up from under her feet as she stepped onto the narrow path of crushed chalk that led to the lane. This bottom part of the village was undisturbed at this time of day; the carters had long since rumbled past to the fields, and the only buildings between her cottage and the road snaking into Uckfield were St Margaret’s and the rectory. Hadn’t there been a reason she’d intended going there later this morning? The headaches that afflicted her on an almost daily basis were developing an alarming tendency to wipe her memory like a damp sponge on slate. Whenever she allowed herself to think of it, the cold conviction that she was going the same way as her father set a tremor of panic coursing through her mind and muscles. She had to know one way or the other. A doctor’s opinion couldn’t be avoided much longer. If he did confirm her fears then at least she still had enough of her faculties to make preparations; whatever happened she wouldn’t wait until it was too late and she lost the ability to choose.
Four ducks were
waddling their way to the Moat Pond. She turned and watched their progress towards the green with its centre of water fringed with sharp-edged sedges and frondy reeds. How she wished she had some bread for them, but if she went back inside to check if there was any left from Saturday then she probably wouldn’t make it to the shops because feeding the ducks was another thing with the capacity to make her forget everything else. The simple act transported her back to her childhood. To a specific time when a strictly rationed modicum of fresh air was deemed essential for the recovery of a convalescent – she must have been four or five – and after walking around the park, Granny would have to rest on a bench to catch her breath and Edith would be safe to wander away and secretly pull the bread she’d stolen from the kitchen out of her pocket. The power she possessed to make the ducks splash towards her was an exquisite moment to savour, never dimmed by repetition. Even now it made her want to cry.
Edith tucked the handle of the wicker basket further into the crook of her arm and set off for the centre of the village. The lane skirted the common where a breeze high up in the elm trees rustled the leaves like soft damask. She was nearing The Cross when she caught sight of Kitty and Sadie Cousins. Two peas from the same pod, as wide as they were tall and not an ounce of brain between them. Edith lowered her head and increased her stride, but they were having none of it.
‘Coo-ee. Coo-ee, Miss Potter. Wait for us.’
‘Yes, wait for us.’
They rolled to her side like barrels of flowery crêpe.
‘Haricot beans we’re needing.’
‘Yes, beans. Scrag end stew for tea. Yum, yum.’
‘Don’t you reckon you should’ve looked out the window and clocked the sun was shining before you put on that coat?’
‘We’re allus hot as a boiling kipper, ain’t we, Kitty?’
