by Anna King
‘Because he loves me, he loves me. He wouldn’t leave me, he wouldn’t,’ she cried to the empty room.
Getting to her feet she looked down into the street, willing him to appear, to see him running down the street, anxious to get back to her, full of explanations as to why he had been so long. He would too; any minute now, he would be standing in this room full of apologies, his dear face worried. And she would laugh with him, tell him it didn’t matter, and he’d be all smiles again. Yes, that’s what would happen, any minute now.
She was still telling herself that when the clock struck five. When the six chimes echoed in the room she rose slowly to her feet, her face ashen. Something had happened, maybe he had been involved in an accident; or maybe he had never had any intention of coming back for her. She shook her head wildly. No, something had prevented him from returning, that must be the reason, it must. Turning to the window once more, she caught sight of herself in the flyblown mirror over the bed and stopped dead in her tracks. The reflection showed an anxious, middle-aged woman dressed in a deep blue dress, a navy cape trimmed with sable draped round her shoulders. Well-dressed certainly, but also middle-aged; middle-aged and ugly. With an anguished cry she threw herself down on the bed and sobbed, deep heartrending sobs that seemed to tear her body asunder. When the paroxysm of tears finally passed she rose unsteadily to her feet.
What was she to do? Jimmy wasn’t coming back, he’d left for good, his pockets lined with her money and possessions and probably laughing his head off at the gullible woman he had so easily duped. With shaking fingers she opened the door and left the house, her mind reeling at the enormity of her situation. All she had in the world were the two suitcases she held in her hands, and a few sovereigns in her purse.
Standing in the noisy, bustling street she stared aimlessly into the crowds. Dear God! What was she to do? She couldn’t go home, not after emptying the safe. There was no way her parents would believe the servants capable of stealing from them, Lord! The idea was preposterous. Nobody in their right mind would imagine Benson capable of theft; the old man would rather die than steal from his beloved employers, and neither he nor the rest of the staff knew the combination. It would be impossible for any of them to have opened the safe, and there was no sign of forced entry so burglary would be instantly ruled out. That left only herself, Harry and Hugh. Her brothers had no need to steal, so the finger of suspicion would rest solely upon her.
A wave of dizziness swept over her as the milling crowd jostled her trembling body. The only solution that came to her troubled mind was to go home and fling herself on her parents’ mercy. Almost immediately she dismissed the idea. Her mother would in all likelihood be shocked but forgiving, but her father! She shivered involuntarily. The idea of facing those piercing black eyes, filled with contempt, was too much to contemplate in her present vulnerable state.
As if in a dream she staggered on, her mind frantically trying to find a way out of the horrendous mess she now found herself in. Then it came to her. Her footsteps slowed as she considered the idea that had sprung into her mind. She could go to Harry and ask him to intervene on her behalf. She was well aware that her brother strongly disliked her, but in spite of his feelings, he was a fair man and a compassionate one. She had nothing to lose by asking him, and everything to gain, for if anyone could win her parents round, he could. The thought of humbling herself before Harry turned her cold, but she had no choice. Worst of all, she would have to be completely truthful with him. Attempting to lie would be a fruitless exercise where Harry was concerned. Looking up at the church clock she saw it was now six thirty. He would still be at the building site. He and his men had been working late these last few months in an effort to reach the August deadline. Swallowing down the bile that had risen in her throat she hailed a passing hansom cab and climbed in.
When she reached the building site she went directly to the wooden hut but found no sign of Harry. Lowering her suitcases to the floor she pondered what to do next. Maybe he was at the dining rooms, making sheep’s eyes at that little whore of his. A look of rage passed over his face. This was all her doing, the spiteful little bitch, if she hadn’t threatened Jimmy with the police, he would still be here and she wouldn’t now be in this position of having to crawl to Harry to beg him for help. Indeed, with each passing minute the idea of having to humble herself in front of her brother grew more intolerable.
Walking slowly round the desk she sat down, her eyes alighting on the shotgun standing by the wall. For a long time she stared at the gun, her tortured mind whirling round in circles. Her future loomed desolately ahead of her. Even if Harry agreed to help, she was doomed to a life of emptiness. There were to be no more ‘Jimmy’s’, she wasn’t so stupid to be taken in twice. So what was the purpose of her life now? To remain at home ostracised and unloved for the rest of her days, while the person who had caused her misery may well discover that her scheming had paid off. If Harry married the Paige girl, he might bring her home to live with them, and she would be forced to watch their happiness every day. In time there would be children, her children. Little brats running all over the house with her parents doting on them and herself ignored and forgotten. The images brought her to her feet, the chair crashing to the floor.
No; it wasn’t to be borne, she’d rather die than let that happen. A red mist descended over her eyes. Every slight, every humiliation she had suffered since childhood rose to the fore. All the hate and frustration now focused on one person, and one person alone. The trembling left her body leaving her calm and determined. Picking up the shotgun she left the hut.
Three men emerged from the houses opposite. One was Joe Waite, newly appointed foreman, anxious to reach home and tell his wife and four children the good news. He couldn’t wait to see their faces when he told them about the extra £2 a week he would now be earning, money which could now be spent on a holiday for them all, the first holiday they had ever had. He was in the middle of sharing a joke with his companions when he saw the woman he knew to be the governor’s sister walk away from the hut, the shotgun resting under her arm.
Darting forward he shouted, ‘’Ere, Miss. Whadya think you’re doing? Yer can’t…’
Bella turned slowly her eyes as cold as stone. Raising the gun she aimed carefully and fired. Joe Waite felt a dull thud hit his chest – he was dead before he hit the ground. The two men looked down at the crumpled figure, their faces a mask of disbelief, then they began shouting wildly. One dropped to his knees to aid his stricken friend while the other ran to find the governor.
Bella walked on.
* * *
‘That’s the last of ’em gone, Maggie,’ Charlie yawned loudly. ‘I’ve put the “closed” sign up.’
Maggie was in the kitchen putting some left-over pies into her basket. They would do for tea, and it would save her cooking again when she got home. She was about to answer
Charlie when she heard the tinkling of the door-bell.
‘Oh no,’ she groaned. ‘Quickly love, tell whoever it is we’re closed, then clear the tables. And lock the door,’ she called after him.
Laying a cloth over the pies she glanced around the kitchen and nodded. Apart from the few plates and knives and forks left outside all the washing up was done. Minutes passed and still Charlie hadn’t returned. Giving an impatient sigh she walked into the dining room. He was probably having a chat with the unwelcome customer. Normally she didn’t mind staying open a bit later, but tonight she couldn’t wait to get home.
‘Have you cleared the tables yet, Charlie, I want to… Oh my God!’ Her hand went to her throat at the sight that met her eyes. Charlie was standing transfixed by the far wall, his terrified gaze on the woman holding the shotgun. Maggie’s legs turned to jelly at the awesome sight.
Struggling to remain calm she said hoarsely, ‘Miss Stewart, whatever’s the matter. Wh… what do you want?’
The gun turned from Charlie towards Maggie.
‘What do I want, Miss Pai
ge? That is very simple, I wish to be rid of you, and I fully intend to do just that.’
There had been many times in her life when Maggie had experienced fear, but never fear like this: stomach-churning, gut-wrenching fear that had left her limbs paralysed, unable to move.
‘B… but why? What have I done? It… it doesn’t make sense.’
The gun was now levelled directly at her chest.
‘Sense! You talk about sense. Don’t you know there is no sense to life. One is born, lives a short time, then dies. A fortunate few enjoy their brief time in this world, while others…’ A faraway look came into Bella’s eyes, but almost immediately it was gone, to be replaced by an empty, dead expression that sent a further chill of fear to Maggie’s heart. Remembering what Charlie had told her about the woman’s fierce possessiveness towards her brothers, she started forward, her hands held out in supplication.
‘Please… if this has anything to do with Harry or Hugh, you don’t have to worry. I… I won’t be seeing either of them again. Honestly, I…’
‘I have no doubt about that,’ Bella’s clipped voice interrupted her. ‘You won’t be seeing anyone again, not after today.’
Desperately Maggie tried once again to reason with the woman. ‘Please, don’t. Don’t do this…’ The words died in her throat. It was no use. The woman was deranged, her face and eyes devoid of any emotion. Closing her eyes she began to pray.
Bella stared for a moment longer at the girl she had grown to hate. She knew that time was running out, Harry would know by now what had happened and realise she had come here. Still she waited, savouring the trembling girl’s fear, relishing the sense of power the gun gave her.
She had forgotten the boy. Charlie watched in mounting horror as the woman’s finger tightened on the trigger. With a strangled cry he ran forward, throwing himself between Maggie and the gun.
‘You’re mad, barmy,’ he screamed hysterically. ‘I told yer, Maggie, I told yer she wasn’t right in the ’ead, but yer wouldn’t listen ter me.’
‘Get out of my way, you snivelling little brat!’ Bella’s composure snapped. Rage gave her strength, and with a violent shove she sent the boy spinning across the room. The sound of running footsteps in the street brought her head round, her eyes narrowing. Turning back to Maggie she aimed the barrel carefully. A movement close by caught her attention. Charlie was trying valiantly to get to his feet. Keeping a watchful gaze on him she squeezed the trigger. Harry and his men had just reached the door when the shot rang out. The sound froze them in their tracks. Then, with a loud cry they put their shoulders to the door and crashed into the room.
Harry was the first into the room. The first person he saw was Bella standing straight, her chin jutting out defiantly.
‘You’re too late, brother dear, but don’t fret too much. I’m sure you will find another whore to take her place.’
Harry looked frantically round the room; then he saw her, slumped down by the wall, half-hidden from view by the cash counter. With an almighty roar he snatched the shotgun from Bella’s hands and upended it, savagely bringing the butt crashing down on the sneering face.
‘Harry, Harry, don’t. I’m all right, I’m all right.’
Harry’s head jerked back at the sound of the whispered voice. Then he was bounding across the room to where Maggie was attempting to rise from the floor.
‘Oh Maggie, Maggie, my darling. I thought… Dear God, I thought she had… Oh Maggie.’
Looking up into the rugged face Maggie smiled weakly. ‘I fainted. When she started to pull the trigger, I just fainted. I never was very brave.’
‘Maggie, Maggie!’ Charlie’s voice filled the room. Too weak from shock to stand, he crawled towards his sister, tears running down his pale cheeks. Maggie put out her arms and gathered him close, rocking him back and forth as she had done when he was a baby, while Harry looked on, his face wreathed in a huge smile of relief. The men who had come with Harry moved forward, crowding around the trio, punching and slapping each other in delight.
No-one noticed Bella.
Careful not to attract attention she pulled herself to a sitting position, groaning quietly. Her face felt as if it were on fire. Gingerly she touched her smashed lips and winced. Looking down at her hand she saw the blood and wondered dimly where it was coming from. Then she remembered. Craning her neck she stared at the crowd of men and the young girl in their midst. The sight enraged her. She didn’t stop to wonder how she had missed Maggie at such short range. The only thought in her crazed mind was to finish what she had started. Turning her body round, she reached for the table, her fingers coming into contact with something sharp. Grasping the knife by the handle she slumped back onto the floor and waited. Like a wounded animal deprived of its quarry she remained motionless, ready to strike at the first opportunity.
‘Come on, men, give her some air,’ Harry cried jovially, his broad frame quivering with emotion.
‘Righto guv,’ The man neared to him replied.
Then, shuffling his feet he asked awkwardly. ‘What abaht ’er, guv? Yer sister I mean, what yer gonna do abaht ’er?’
The smile slipped from Harry’s face. ‘One of you go and fetch the police,’ he said grimly. ‘The rest of you stand guard over her until they get here.’
The men parted to let Maggie, supported by Harry and Charlie, through their ranks. No-one saw Bella get to her feet until it was too late. Her screams split the air as she ran up behind Maggie, the knife held high in the air. Caught by surprise, Harry vainly tried to ward off the blow with his arm, but he wasn’t quick enough. The blade flashed by his ear before embedding its cold steel into Maggie’s neck.
A moment’s silence filled the room, then pandemonium broke out. Men ran forward and grabbed Bella, pulling her roughly away, their gazes averted from the smashed, bloody face and the mangled lips from which undistinguishable sounds were coming. Harry and Charlie gently lowered Maggie to the floor, their horrified eyes staring at the hilt of the knife protruding from the bloody white flesh.
‘Is… is she dead, Harry?’ Charlie asked, his voice choked with tears.
Harry hung his head helplessly. What had Hugh told him about knife wounds? Damn it, why hadn’t he listened to his brother’s teachings. Then he remembered.
Twisting round on his knees he shouted, ‘Fred, run for a doctor, tell him we need an ambulance cart, quickly.’
The man he had called to was out of the room before Harry had finished the sentence.
‘One of you fetch a clean cloth from the kitchen; I’ll have to staunch the flow of blood until help arrives, hurry, man, hurry.’
Within minutes the man had returned, a small towel in his calloused hands.
‘’Ere yer are, guv. Gawd! She don’t look too ’ealthy, does she?’
Harry bit down hard on his bottom lip, then set to work. As gently as he could, he wrapped the towel around the knife, then held the cloth in place and pressed down firmly.
‘Ain’t yer gonna take the knife out, Harry?’ Charlie pleaded anxiously.
‘No, Charlie, it’s dangerous to remove a knife from a wound. If I pull it out it will cause more bleeding. Best to wait until a doctor gets here.’
Charlie’s hand rested on his. ‘Yer didn’t answer me, Harry; is she… is she dead?’
Harry felt his body jerk painfully. Aware of the numerous eyes upon him he took a deep breath and bent his head to Maggie’s chest. The sound of the heart beating against his ear was the sweetest sound he had ever heard.
Blowing out his cheeks he raised his eyes to Charlie and smiled, ‘She’s alive, Charlie, she’s alive. Here, hold the cloth in place, firmly now, I’ll be back in a minute.’
Getting to his feet he faced his sister. His voice cold and deliberate, he bent his head towards her and snarled, ‘You evil bitch. You couldn’t stand to see me find happiness, could you? You never could bear to see anyone happy. Well, your pleasure is going to be short-lived, because you’re going to hang for this. Do y
ou hear me, Bella? You’re going to hang. Even if Maggie survives, you’ll hang. The man you shot is dead. He was a good man, ten times your pathetic worth. Don’t think because father is a judge you’ll get away with your evil actions, he’ll have no more pity for you than I have. And I’ll tell you something else; the day they take you to the gallows I’ll be there, and when the trap door is sprung I’ll cheer.’ His lips curled in distaste. ‘I hope the hangman is inept at his job. I hope you die slowly and painfully, you vicious, evil bitch.’
Bella glared back at him, her black eyes filled with hate. Gathering up the blood that filled her mouth she spat at him, then started to laugh. She was still laughing when the ambulance cart came for Maggie. She was still laughing when the police bundled her unceremoniously into the police wagon.
Twenty-three
The trial of Bella Stewart sent shock waves throughout London. Every day saw a queue of people waiting to be let into the High Court eager to see the woman who had murdered a man in cold blood, and then attempted to kill a young woman who was rumoured to be Harry Stewart’s mistress.
Members of the press joined the spectators with pencils sharpened, their notebooks resting on cramped knees. The front row was left free for Joe Waite’s widow and four children. Not one day did they miss, determined to be present when the verdict was handed out.
There was much speculation abroad as to whether the honourable Judge Edward Stewart would attempt to exert his influence in the hope of saving his only daughter from the gallows. Here they were proved wrong. Apart from engaging a solicitor for the defence, the proud autocratic man stayed firmly in the background, content to let justice take its course.
On the last day of June, Beatrice, Lotte and Hugh sat high in the gallery, with Harry and Charlie seated a few rows in front as the jury filed out of the court to deliberate their verdict. Many saw it as a fruitless exercise; the woman was guilty as hell. The evidence against her was damning. Two men had seen her shoot Joe Waite down like a mad dog, and the attack on the Paige girl had been witnessed by half a dozen men, including the girl’s brother and Mr Harry Stewart himself. After three long months it still wasn’t known what had provoked the murderous attacks, for not one word had the Stewart woman spoken in her defence. The evidence of the stolen money and jewellery together with the two suitcases packed with the accused’s belongings led the court to believe that she had been about to run away with a lover. The jewels and money had never been recovered, thus leading to further speculation that the man in question had absconded with the valuables, leaving his ageing mistress behind.
