by Ruth Sutton
‘She’s a madam, that one,’ said Nellie. ‘No better than she should be, so they say, Standing up there, smiling at the coroner like butter wouldn’t melt. She’s at th’ Hall as well. Started before our Alice. They could’ve got ’er to say what she did, covering up like. Paid ’er.’
‘We don’t know that, Nellie. Maybe the Skeffingtons had nothing to do with any of it, not Mr Alex, not Sir John. Maybe it was someone else. Maybe nobody. We don’t know.’
‘We can ask, though. We can get that Phyllis on ’er own and ask all the questions that should’ve been asked at the inquest when we were all too upset to say a word. She’s still there, I know that. Saw ’er mam at market last month sometime. Allus lets on to me. Could’ve been ’er that lost a daughter …’
Nellie stopped. She put a hand to her mouth. A tear ran down the side of her face. ‘Sorry, miss. Look at me. Too late for tears. She’s gone, never coming back. It’s the gin talking.’
‘You cry if you want to, Nellie,’ said Jessie. ‘I’m sorry I raked it up. I just … wondered, you know, if she ever told you. She would have done, of course, if she hadn’t been so frightened.’
‘Of ’er dad? Aye, she were right to be feared of ’im. I am meself sometimes. Men. They get away with it, every time, knock up a lass and just walk away. Not right. It’s the women who ’ave their babies, feed everybody, manage everything, get knocked about. It’s not right.’
Jessie waited while the anger faded. The fire was dying and the room was cold. Nellie pulled her shoes out of the hearth and her shawl from the back of the chair behind her. She sniffed. ‘Have to go, miss. Bill’ll notice if I’m real late. We need to talk to that Phyllis. You ’ave to come, miss. You can make ’er tell us what she knows.’
‘I doubt that, Nellie, but of course I’ll come with you. If it stays clear and cold like this we can take the river path: no mud, easier under foot. When, though? It’s alright for me, I’m going to Agnes Plane’s for Christmas, but you will have so much to do.’
‘I’ll manage an hour or two. Bill doesn’t finish till Christmas Eve. Our Mary can look after the two young ’uns. Plenty to keep ’em all busy.’
‘We could send a message to the Hall,’ Jessie began.
‘Nay, miss,’ said Nellie with unusual determination. ‘Don’t give that Phyllis time to prepare a story. Catch ’er on the hop. She knows something, I’m sure of that.’
Chapter 28
The riverside path to Skeffington Hall was as hard and dry as Jessie had predicted, and the two women were walking up the long drive with plenty of time to do what they had to do before the mid-afternoon dark would overtake them. A familiar car passed them as they walked and Jessie raised her hand in greeting to the vicar, but Lionel was looking straight ahead and did not even see them.
‘Was that th’ vicar?’ asked Nellie, stepping out of the ditch that had protected her from the speeding car.
‘I believe so, but he didn’t see us.’ Jessie sometimes got a glimpse like this of how Lionel was viewed by many of Newton’s inhabitants.
‘Don’t believe in them cars, miss. Folk don’t need to go as fast as that to get things done. So noisy, too.’
‘You’re right I’m sure, Nellie. When I was in London – ’
‘London, miss? You’ve been to London?’
‘Just the once, Nellie. With Miss Plane. She has an aunt there. So many cars. That’s the first thing you notice.’ They’d arrived at a fork in the drive. ‘Back door I think, don’t you?’
Ahead of them stood the Hall, faced with large sandstone blocks, probably taken from the Roman fort down by the sea centuries before. Jessie loved this house, the way it sat comfortably in the landscape as if it had always been here, and the wonderful view up the valley from the terrace at the front. The tradesmen’s entrance at the back was much less grand, with no view at all, but it was the best place to find the girl they were looking for. Jessie stopped and held Nellie’s arm as they approached the door.
‘Now we’ll have to be careful with Phyllis, Nellie,’ she said. ‘I know you think she knows something about the night Alice died, but we can’t be sure of that. If she knew something and didn’t tell the coroner, that could be very serious. Can’t expect her to just tell us the truth now, just because we ask her to.’
‘I won’t fly at ’er, miss, though ’eaven knows I’d like to. She and our Alice was thick as thieves, right back to being young ’uns. Told each other everything. She knows summat, I’ll swear she does. Why did she lie? Must be covering it up for some reason.’
‘And it must be important to her, that’s what I’m saying,’ said Jessie. ‘So let’s just be friendly and see what happens. Alright?’
Jessie waited until Nellie nodded assent before she pulled on the bell rope that hung at the side of the door. They waited. A face appeared at a small window just above their heads and then the door swung open. The young woman who opened it was about the same age as Alice. Even looked like her, thought Jessie with a start. Maybe it was just the uniform that made young girls in service all look much the same.
The girl recognized Jessie and blushed.
‘Good morning, miss,’ she said, smiling. ‘You’ve not seen me for a year or two. Elspeth, miss, Elspeth New.’
‘Good heavens,’ said Jessie, ‘So it is. How are you, Elspeth?’
‘I’m well, thank you, miss.’
‘And your mother, how is she … coping?’
‘Well as she can, miss. It’s been ’ard, you know, since –’
‘Of course. Is your father still at home?’
‘Nowhere else to go, miss, since ’e’s lost his sight. Cannut do ’owt for ’imself. I give Mam what I can, and James too. He’s at Eskmeals now, just started. Not much, but it all helps with the young ’uns.’
‘Elspeth!’ a voice bore down on them from the room behind the door. ‘Who is it? Why’s that door still open, making the fire smoke?’
Elspeth flinched. ‘Better come in, miss.’
‘Thank you, Elspeth,’ said Jessie with due formality. She and Nellie stepped up into the hallway and Elspeth shut the door behind them. ‘Follow me, please,’ she said, leading them through a door into a huge kitchen.
‘Who is it, Elspeth?’ said the owner of the voice, Mrs Hodgkin the housekeeper who Jessie recognized from church. ‘Oh it’s you, Miss Whelan. Round the back?’
‘Yes, Mrs Hodgkin. I thought it more apropos. Good morning to you, by the way. It must be a week or two?’
‘It has been that long, Miss Whelan, indeed. I’m a martyr to my chest, and it’s been bad lately. Nothing worse than coughing in church, I always say. So rude.’
Nellie and Elspeth watched this brief encounter with interest. Neither of them had ever heard Mrs Hodgkin speak so politely to someone ‘round the back’.
‘Have you met my friend, Mrs Kitchin?’ said Jessie, responding to the mood of ladylike conviviality.
‘Oh my, it’s Alice’s mother, is it?’ said the housekeeper. ‘A fine young woman, your Alice, Mrs Kitchin. We miss her downstairs, don’t we Elspeth?’
‘Yes Mrs Hodgkin, we do.’
‘And what can we do for you, Miss Whelan? What brings you here, both of you, and at this end of the house?’
‘I do apologise for this intrusion, Mrs Hodgkin. We would like a word with one of your girls, and thought it better to see you rather than someone else in the house about it. It’s a private matter, but rather urgent.’
‘Private, well. We don’t encourage the girls to have callers while they’re at work, but I assume it’s important to bring you both up here. Nothing serious I hope?’
‘No, no,’ said Jessie, who could still lie convincingly when she had to. ‘But we would be so grateful for a little time with – oh I didn’t say – with Phyllis, Phyllis Monck, if you would be so kind as to ask her.’
‘Phyllis,’ Mrs Hodgkin’s expression altered just a little. Was she surprised, or not, Jessie wondered. ‘Yes of course. Elspeth, run upstair
s and fetch Phyllis, there’s a good girl. She’s in the blue bedroom, or she should be. Now will you take some tea, Miss Whelan, Mrs Kitchin, while you wait?’
Jessie glanced at Nellie before she declined the offer.
‘That’s very kind, thank you, Mrs Hodgkin, but Mrs Kitchin and I can only stay a few minutes. We’ve walked across and the dark draws in so early.’
‘Well, come through to my parlour,’ said Mrs Hodgkin, ‘while we’re waiting. Warmer in there and we can sit down.’
And so they sat. Mrs Hodgkin wore her best expression of benevolent curiosity but Jessie wasn’t tempted to say anything more about the purpose of their visit. Instead she asked, ‘Was it the vicar we saw leaving as we came down the drive? He seemed to be in a hurry.’
‘Indeed it was,’ replied the housekeeper. ‘He came to see Sir John, but he’s in Cockermouth today and the vicar couldn’t wait. Seemed to be in a hurry over something. Such a busy man, always.’ She turned towards the door as it creaked. ‘There you are, Phyllis. Go and wash your hands, girl. These ladies would like a word with you, but not with dirty hands like that.’
‘Yes Mrs ’odgkin. Sorry, miss,’ said Phyllis, hurrying away.
‘I’ll leave you to it, Miss Whelan, ‘ said the housekeeper, with obvious reluctance. The vicar calling, now the schoolteacher, both unexplained. There were too many things happening this morning that she didn’t know about.
Jessie and Nellie sat on the small chairs either side of the fireplace, leaving a hard wooden chair between them for Phyllis when she returned.
‘I expect you’d like to know why we want to talk to you, Phyllis,’ said Jessie, as Phyllis sat down. ‘You know Mrs Kitchin, I’m sure, poor Alice’s mother.’
‘Yes, miss,’ said Phyllis, looking down at her clean hands. She knew Nellie Kitchin all too well.
‘Well,’ Jessie went on, ‘Mrs Kitchin and I have been thinking about the way poor Alice met her death in May, just before coronation day, do you remember?’
‘Oh, yes, miss.’ Phyllis’s voice had dropped to a whisper and a red blush was clear on her cheeks even in the gloom of the small parlour.
‘You were probably the last person to see her alive, Phyllis. Her mother and I, we both need to know more about what happened that night, more than what came out at the inquest. That’s why we want to talk to you.’
‘Why now, miss? It were months ago.’ Phyllis raised her head, but still did not look at Nellie, not a flicker.
‘You know, I’m not sure, Phyllis.’ Jessie could hear her herself, sounding like the teacher. ‘Maybe something about Christmas coming. It’s always so hard you know, the first Christmas after … after you’ve lost someone dear to you. So many memories. Nellie and I were talking about it the other day, weren’t we, Nellie?’ Nellie nodded, but said nothing. ‘And we both said, almost together, that we wished we understood more about that night, and what happened.’
‘I told ’em, miss, the coroner and all them folk. I told ’em what ’appened.’
‘Yes of course, you did. We were all there, weren’t we? And I expected the coroner to ask you some more questions but they all seemed so sure that Alice had just slipped and fallen into the river. No one else around who could have helped her. She must have, well, she must have called for help or something, don’t you think?’
‘Don’t know, miss, I’m sure.’ Phyllis’s head was down on her chest again.
‘Well we thought we’d just come up and ask you about it ourselves, before we all get involved in Christmas. And we didn’t want to interrupt your break with your family.’
‘Only Christmas Day, miss, that’s all they give us.’
‘Exactly,’ said Jessie, reasonably. ‘That’s why we’ve come today, just for a wee chat about it, just to set our minds at rest.’ She looked across at Nellie, who was struggling to keep quiet, and shook her head slightly. She thought that Phyllis might tell them more if they took it very slowly.
‘Now,’ Jessie went on, ‘you were with Alice at the dance in Ganthwaite that night, weren’t you?’
‘Yes, miss. We all went.’
‘And was Alice with anyone there, apart from you and her other friends from the Hall.’
‘No miss. We were all together. There were village folk there, like, but no one … Alice wasn’t with no one, miss.’
‘Did she have any special friends, Phyllis? A young man perhaps? She didn’t tell Mrs Kitchin anything.’ Jessie looked at Nellie who was watching Phyllis very carefully. ‘But then we don’t always tell our mothers about these things, do we?’ She smiled at the bent head. Phyllis looked up again, but not for more than a moment.
‘No, miss. Alice didn’t ’ave a young man. She’d’ve told me. I would’ve known.’
‘Of course you would.’ Jessie hesitated. ‘Phyllis, Alice told me that Mr Alex was very fond of her.’
‘Our Mr Alex, miss?’
‘Yes, Alex Skeffington, that’s what she said.’
Phyllis turned her head to one side, trying without success to stifle a laugh.
‘She said that? About Mr Alex?’ She dipped her head and looked about, nervous at the mention of the young master’s name in his own kitchen.
‘Yes, she did.’
‘Well, I – sorry to laugh, miss, but Mr Alex, he’s such a … well, he’s engaged to be married, miss, to Miss Ramsden. He couldn’t.’
‘It is possible that Alice was wrong about that. If he was, you know, kind to her, she might have misunderstood.’
‘She did like Mr Alex, I know that,’ said Phyllis suddenly, almost gleefully. ‘But …’
‘But what?’
‘Well, Mr Alex wasn’t at the dance, was he? No posh folk at Ganthwaite.’
‘No, of course.’ Jessie hesitated a moment, long enough for Nellie to interrupt.
‘You said that you and Alice left together.’
‘Yes,’ said Phyllis, clearly worried about talking to Alice’s mother rather than the schoolteacher. The thought of Alice’s father was worrying her, too.
Nellie was unconvinced and her voice rose as she continued. ‘Now look, Phyllis. I’ve known ye since ye were a babby. Don’t lie to me. If … if you’re not telling th’ truth it could be … well, you’d better be telling us th’ truth, my girl.’ She glared at Phyllis. ‘I know my Alice.’ Her voice sank to a fierce whisper as Jessie put a finger to her lips and looked towards the door. Mrs Hodgkin was certain to be close by, hearing as much as she could.
‘Look at me, Phyllis,’ Nellie whispered. ‘Did you and Alice leave together, like you said? Was anyone else with you who might’ve seen summat?’
Phyllis said nothing more. She hung her head and took a hankie out of her pocket.
‘You have to tell us, Phyllis,’ said Jessie, imploring the girl to say something. Nellie was clearly ready to threaten her, or worse.
Phyllis looked up, her eyes bright with tears. ‘But I promised,’ she began.
‘Promised? Who? What did you promise?’ Nellie demanded. ‘Look,’ she said, her head very close to Phyllis. ‘Look, she was my daughter, my eldest, and she could be a madam, I know that. What did she make you do? We don’t blame ye, do we Miss Whelan, we just want to know what ’appened. You promised Alice but she’s dead, and we’re ’ere. You’re ’ere. You’re carrying something for ’er aren’t you, but she’s dead. She died that night, drowned like a rat in a dyke. And I’m ’er mam. Tell me!’
‘She made me promise,’ sobbed Phyllis. ‘She was going to meet someone, but she made me promise I wouldn’t tell. After – when they found her – I ’ad to keep me promise. For Alice, as her friend. So I did. I said she’d been with me, and no one asked me, so …’
‘So she went to see someone, on her own, after the dance?’
‘Yes, miss.’
‘And who was it? A man? I knew it!’ Nellie sat back suddenly, clenching her fists.
Phyllis shrank back into the chair. ‘Yes, miss.’
‘Who was it, child?’ Jessie co
uld see that Phyllis was struggling.
‘’E said if I told anyone, I’d get into trouble, that I’d lose my place, that I could go to prison even for not saying anything before.’
‘Who told you that? The same man?’
‘Yes.’
Nellie seized the girl by the arm and twisted her round.
‘Who was it, you little bitch?’
Phyllis pulled away, but the tears didn’t stop.
‘It was Andy,’ she hissed at the two women, hating them, hating herself. ‘Andy Leadbetter. He met ’er, by t’river, after t’dance. She wanted to meet ’im. She wanted ’im, she told me. And I wanted ’im, too,’ she sobbed. ‘It’s not fair.’
Chapter 29
There was no one home at the Church Walk house in Ulverston when John got back from Grange, but the back door was open as always, and he revelled in the silence of the house. It was windy, but not as much as on the exposed promenade where he’d walked with Isaac Crane. The house was cold. George was at work and Anne must have gone out without lighting any fires. Winter sunshine brightened the house but didn’t warm it up, and John kept his coat on while he made a drink. He was glad to be alone. He wanted to think. Aunty Anne meant well, but her concern was exhausting.
Jessie Thompson. John couldn’t get the name out of his mind. And the picture. She had been in the picture all along and he hadn’t known. She looked so young. Only forty or so, even now, still young. She’d given him up for her job, or that’s how it looked. There had to be a reason, but this was more like an excuse. He tried to imagine the pressure she must have faced: 1916 was different world. He hadn’t learned much at school about it, but he could see just by looking at that photo how much the clothes had changed since then. No more skirts to the ground these days, no more big hats, pinched waists.
Poor Jessie, he thought. Up against her mother and her aunt. They must have pushed and nagged her, and worse. What did it take for his mam to be packed off to Carnforth in shame and watch someone else take him away, her child? John didn’t often see the world from someone else’s viewpoint, but he did now and the hurt was unbearable. He sat at the kitchen table, forehead leaning on his fist. Why did Enid have to say what she’d said and set this whole thing in motion? He wasn’t happy before, but he was surely more content than he felt right now. ‘Be grateful,’ Mrs Barker had said. ‘Many people have it worse.’ True. He had money and his health was improving, although much of the time he felt wretched and he wanted it to be over. Still, he couldn’t stop now. He knew who he wasn’t, but the truth was still blurred and obscure. All he had was a name and an old photo.
