Veil of Darkness

by Gillian White

  She stifles a laugh and bares her teeth. She waits a few minutes before she starts to pull. Good. Trevor has done what she told him. The piece of flesh is wrapped in gauze, but already blood is dripping through because the ear is a tender part and bleeds profusely. Hardly able to look at the gore, let alone touch it, she removes the scissors and proceeds to cut one foot off the rope and the soggy mess comes off with it. She slips it into a small Spar bag and ties up the end with a shudder.

  Laughter wells up in her throat again and she has to swallow it down; it’s not decent, not at a time like this. She coils the fresh end of rope round the bottled water and the Jaffa cakes, ties it and slowly lets them down. Let him think she is relenting; how many times has he done that to her just when she thought the worst was over he would put the mat on the kitchen floor and push her head into a basin of slops. ‘Bitch. Know your place. You don’t eat with me at the bleeding table.’

  And she can’t overcome the awful horror that, even now, weak and wounded though he is, Trev might manage to drag himself out.

  The hole is a jagged one, three feet across at the widest part, so if Kirsty is going to cover it over she needs a good-sized slab of wood, and the scarred and mouldering kitchen table looks as if it might do the job.

  First she throws down his clothes. In a few more minutes he’s not going to care whether he is naked or not. He might even think she is going to release him. Then, after covering her face with both hands to protect it from the dust, she kicks down the surrounding rubble, her housewifely heart gladdened by the way this neatens the kitchen. Weak groanings come from below. Kirsty smiles; Magdalene is with her, her hero shadows each move like a haunting. Next, like a woman possessed, Kirsty gathers up every household appliance: pots, pans, an iron, a bucket, ashtrays and two electric fires, the trappings of life, the accumulation of rubbish that kept her Trev’s prisoner for eight hideous years. She rips the curtains from the pelmets and drags the blankets from the mouldy beds. She flings all these down the gap in the floor, using the floor mop as a plunger to force them further and tighter, down, down, into the grave.

  ‘DIE. DIE. DIE.’

  ‘God moves in a mysterious way his wonders to perform.’

  Her strength is formidable. She is filled with a calm resolve. Nothing seems too heavy, too awkward. When she is satisfied that she can’t cram any more in, she drags the table across to the shaft, turns it on to its back and manoeuvres it carefully so it covers up all signs of disturbance.

  Kirsty would rather move into the farmhouse before Avril faces the inquest. That experience will be traumatic. Even though she is innocent, much better to have a warm house to come home to, a bath she can relax in, proper hot water, a decent cooker, a comfortable bed instead of a shelf with a hard foam slither of a mattress.

  Publication date—6 February.

  When the proofs arrived from the publisher Kirsty had burst with enormous pride as she’d held Magdalene to her with all the gentleness of a newborn child. It was like getting your dream at Christmas, the wish you had sent up the chimney with the smoke: the new bike, the pram, the Barbie palace all lit up. So often the toy meant everything because Christmas itself was always sad with Dad trying to do his best and her brother, Ralph, going off to friends. If she’d had a mother it might have been different, but she never blamed her mother for dying. Dad gave her the love he could, but a child is no company for a man; he would rather have gone to the pub to play darts and Kirsty always knew that. They mostly ended up watching sport on the box, he on the lager and she on the Coke.

  She drew in the newly printed aura of Magdalene with a sigh of ecstatic satisfaction—how much improved this new copy was compared to the musty pages of the original. There were only two copies in the package, one for her and another for Avril, so she couldn’t do what she’d promised and give a copy to Mrs Stokes. But she showed her the book all the same, and, for the first time ever, Mrs Stokes looked impressed.

  ‘I never thought this would really happen. I thought it was all a flash in the pan.’

  ‘So did I,’ said Kirsty.

  At the new and impressive British Library Candice Love does her research.

  Wherever she looks, on computer or within reference book, she cannot find a mention of the author Ellen Kirkwood, which is strange and unlikely bearing in mind the novelist’s genius. Has someone, for some nefarious reason, deleted all reference to it? Hardly conceivable given the amount of data there is. Is it remotely possible that some joker has had this old copy printed and professionally aged like the Hitler diaries? But forgery seems rather extreme; her imagination is playing tricks.

  There must be a mention somewhere.

  It’s only a simple question of looking in the right place.

  But there’s no mention of Ellen Kirkwood in any biographical dictionary, nor in the annals of previous authors stretching back through the centuries.

  Because the Jiffy bag was posted in Plymouth, Candice moves over to local periodicals. It is remotely possible that the book was limited to local distribution, although why a novel of such giant stature should be treated in this way is a puzzle she cannot solve.

  Tired and bewildered, but totally determined to discover the credentials of this missing person for reasons of her own, she is eventually forced to resort to checking births, marriages and deaths. The fact that Kirkwood only wrote one book unfortunately means nothing. Some authors have only one book in them, particularly in those days when it wasn’t expected that they should bang out so many. There was silly money around even then; long before Kirkwood’s time Dickens was paid £7,500 for The Mystery of Edwin Drood, and George Eliot got £10,000 for Romola, a fortune in those days.

  Candice has one date to go on, and that is 1913, the date when Magdalene was supposedly published. She might as well start there, but she is prepared for a daunting task which might take her days, or even weeks. Candice will bide her time hiding in here, waiting for the scandal to break. Her mobile is firmly switched off.

  ‘Ellen Kirkwood… died 1913. Plymouth.’

  She jumps as the name leaps from the page. Could this be the same Ellen Kirkwood? If so, she died the year the book came out. That is extraordinary and, for the author, presumably most unfortunate.

  She has nothing more to go on. So Candice moves back to the local reference sections. She ploughs through them all afternoon only stopping for an apple and a Marmite and cucumber sandwich around three o’clock. On screen she flicks through tomes about local dignitaries till her eyes ache, reformers and performers that drive her silly. Pages and pages of ancient newspapers all harping on about threatened war, politics, crime and punishment—the Western Morning News, the Evening Herald…

  An unnatural hush gathers round her.

  The bang of a door makes her start.

  She suddenly hears clocks ticking where there was silence before.

  ‘Kirkwood apprehended for vile murder.’

  ‘Sensation, more bodies found in Kirkwood case.’

  ‘Kirkwood shows no emotion in court.’

  ‘Kirkwood sentenced to death by hanging.’

  The police soon realized they were dealing with, not the ignorant ladies’ maid they’d assumed, but a woman of high education and exceptional ingenuity…

  Ellen Kirkwood was a privileged child brought up by a professional and Christian family. Educated at St Jude’s Roman Catholic Academy for Girls until she was expelled for stealing, and disowned by her family at the age of fifteen, Miss Kirkwood then quickly descended through society’s ranks until she ended up in the gutter, a fallen woman, where the Salvation Army found her and offered a helping hand. Eventually, being well mannered and well spoken, she found employment as a lady’s maid at the home of eminent politician Sir Michael Geary, and it was from this innocent gentleman’s house that she started a life of chronic deceit, setting off on nocturnal wanderings, the violent and gruesome consequences of which ended up with cold, premeditated slaughter, the details of which were expla
ined in court for all to hear.

  It is still not known how many young men met their deaths at this evil murderess’s hand.

  Throughout her trial, Miss Kirkwood displayed an iron calm, an astonishing self-control, a power to hide all feelings.

  Ellen Kirkwood’s just punishment for her ghastly and wicked crimes was delayed for two months to allow for the birth of her illegitimate child. She was buried in the precincts of the prison where she was last confined.

  Jesus Christ Almighty.

  So—Candice Love runs a hand through uncharacteristically messy hair—Magdalene, the masterpiece, was possibly never published. The copy she has in her hand is most likely one of a tiny number—under such sorry circumstances the publisher, Bryant, must have scrapped the print run once they discovered the appalling crimes of their author. Murderers were not in vogue then, just one or two copies must have scraped through. That could be why the novel is not listed anywhere in this vast and comprehensive library.

  How different reactions would be today. How they would gather, vultures at a feast, if this killer offered her story today: How the public would clamour for more, how hungry most of us are for our shy little glimpses of evil.

  But we no longer hang those who founder, and we don’t consign losers to the gutter. Well, not happily anyway.

  There are no rights to Magdalene?

  1913, so it’s out of copyright.

  The book could still be published and what a story the deception would make.

  But what happened to Kirkwood’s child? There could be trouble from that quarter.

  There is more delving to be done before Candice Love has all the answers. But the place she must start is the Burleston Hotel, the nest from which this masterpiece hatched, the locality of its unhappy conception.

  Twenty-Nine

  WORN OUT BY A wasted night on the tiles drinking alone in a Plymouth pub, Avril fumes on. Nobody had come to sit beside her no matter what she did with her eyes, nobody seemed to be impressed by the shortness of her skirt, the fishnet tights, the tinted eyelashes, the scarlet lipstick or the come-and-get me look which she had rehearsed to perfection beforehand.

  She had caught sight of herself in a mirror and stared stupidly at it. She nearly looked like a man in drag. She was now the sort of woman she would have crossed the pavement to avoid, the very prototype of all mother’s warnings: loose, immoral, fallen. Only one man showed any interest and he was over fifty, unshaven, shabby and stank of urine.

  She ended up boss-eyed and sick, and went to sleep with her caravan room spiralling around her and Kirsty, of all people, nagging on about bad influences on the children.

  And now look, that scheming actress Bernadette has stolen Avril’s thunder by resorting to hysterical dramatics over her so-called fiancé’s ‘accident’. The agent is in intensive care, hovering on the brink of death with tubes up every orifice, according to Bernie, who has decided to return to Cornwall because she can’t take the strain any more.

  ‘Just when I was so happy,’ sobbed Bernie on the phone, hysterical. ‘And I’ve got something else to tell you. Something worse, oh Jaysus…’

  Kirsty, who ought to be concentrating on Avril and her coming ordeal—the inquest into the fire is tomorrow—has been taken in by Bernie’s charade and is collecting her from the station. They are going to view the cottage together, but why should Bernie be included? Bernie certainly will not be invited to join the select little family. Oh no.

  So much for the godlike Rory Coburn and his influence over Bernie’s accountants, his assurances of assistance to Bernie throughout her difficult publicity campaigns, so much for a shoulder to lean on. Bernie probably made it all up, she probably got obsessed with the guy and ended up making a fool of herself, just as she did over Dominic Coates. Some women seem doomed to such trauma—loving too much, the experts call it.

  And if Kirsty thinks Avril is a bad influence on her precious children, maybe she should look closer at Bernie.

  Poor Avril is never at rest these days. The pressure of her pent-up anger has not been assuaged by the tragedy—Avril, who four months ago wouldn’t have dared say boo to a goose. It’s a complete reversal of character, and sometimes the force of it makes her feel sick and she actually has to vomit—the colour has started to worry her; could she have some terrible disease. For apart from the contents of her stomach there are unidentifiable patches, like growths, attached to some of the chunks.

  She flushes it away in a state of denial, trying not to look. And she sometimes calls out in her dreams and wakes Kirsty.

  The children, the children, the bloody children. Everything centres round Jake and Gemma, spoilt little brats who want their heads knocking together. Guilt makes Kirsty overindulgent; she is trying to compensate for their experiences, selfishly making herself feel better but ruining the kids for life. They need a much firmer hand, they ought to be forced to finish their food, stick to a certain bedtime, wash and tidy up after themselves, and there’s no need for Kirsty to read them a story every night whatever their behaviour.

  Avril watches all this as pulses hammer behind her forehead. Sometimes her fists are so tightly clenched that the veins in her wrists stand out with the pressure of her fury. Let her get her hands on these kids, she’d soon teach them about respect, good manners, gratitude and subservience.

  ‘You look like a Christmas tree, Avril,’ Gemma had the nerve to say the last time she got in her evening taxi heading for the bright lights.

  ‘You’ve got a big fat bum,’ said Jake soon after. ‘If that bum was mine I’d try to hide it, not show it off in those striped leggings.’

  ‘You mind your own business,’ said Avril, fiddling with a large glass earring.

  But Kirsty, who should have curbed them with a good slap across their faces, merely gave a sorry shrug and said something silly like, ‘Kids, what can you do?’

  You can do a great deal, thinks Avril. There’s something to be said, after all, for Mother’s attitude to children.

  Kirsty even suggested allowing the children a day off school to let them look round the cottage—why the hell should they have a say? Avril reminded her that they might get too excited and be disappointed if it fell through. So Kirsty changed her mind. Thank God.

  Imagine the shambles those kids would cause. Chatter chattering in the car, dashing about the cottage and embarrassing them in front of the owner, jumping on the beds and rolling around on the sofas and chairs. What makes Kirsty so blind to the unattractiveness of her children?

  If they don’t get shown some discipline soon they are going to end up off the rails and in real trouble, like Graham.

  ‘Clear up your own toys,’ said Avril to Gemma one evening when Kirsty was out. ‘Don’t think for one moment that I’m going to do it. I’m not as silly as your mother.’

  ‘OK,’ said Gemma artfully, wary of falling foul of Avril.

  ‘And you, don’t just hang around so slyly trying to get out of doing your share. There’s all that washing-up in the sink,’ Avril said to Jake.

  ‘I’ll make a cup of tea when I’ve finished,’ said the cunning boy, turning on the charm.

  I can see through you, sweetheart.

  She wanted to slap his leg hard.

  The cottage is charming. It smells of woodsmoke. It stands on its own just outside a village. The floors are slate and covered with rugs, the furniture is shabbily comfortable and there is a Rayburn in the kitchen.

  The jumped-up Bernie stands out like a sore thumb in the middle of the country, in her pink suede jacket, her long black boots and her fluffy hat. She looks like a Russian ballerina and surely everyone’s staring.

  She should have stayed where she was in London.

  Kirsty and Avril don’t want her here.

  ‘What sort of accident was it?’ asks Kirsty, all silly concern as they circle their way up the small staircase. ‘It must have been bad to put Rory in intensive care.’

  ‘He took something.’

 
; ‘What? On purpose?’

  ‘By accident. He took too many sleeping pills, B–b–but there’s worse than that, I have to tell you…’

  ‘You mean he tried to top himself?’ Avril, certain that Bernie is lying, is determined the truth should come out.

  ‘Why would he want to do that?’ Bernie pleads, with that silly little-girl-lost look on her face. ‘He adored me. We would have got married and then none of this would have happened.’

  ‘You still can, can’t you?’ Kirsty is going along with the farce. ‘And what d’you mean, none of this?’

  But Bernie seems unable to answer. Instead she sobs, ‘Bentley found him,’ as they go round the three upstairs bedrooms. Avril hopes she realizes there is no spare bedroom for her. ‘He was unconscious. They say he was near the end.’

  ‘Some accident,’ says Avril tartly, knowing that this larger, sunnier, more airy room will be offered to the children.

  ‘And then there’s the attic,’ says Mr Pratt, the owner, leading the way.

  ‘Oh what a brilliant playroom,’ cries Kirsty. ‘Isn’t this lovely, Avril? It would be perfect!’

  ‘I would like this room as a study,’ says Avril.

  ‘A study? Whatever for?’

  How patronizing that they should ask. ‘Any work I might decide to take on,’ says Avril aggressively. ‘And I might like a sitting room of my own where I can entertain friends. I don’t want to have to share everything with your family,’ she tells Kirsty briskly. ‘I need my own space, you know.’

  Kirsty hesitates, seemingly surprised that Avril should have strong views of her own. ‘Well, yes, of course, if you feel that way, Avril.’

  ‘Well, I do,’ says Avril firmly.

  Into the tension Bernie blunders, ‘I hope you’ll be able to afford it.’

  Kirsty and Avril turn round, baffled, and Bernie goes on before they can ask her. ‘We might have to give it all back.’