by Meira Chand
His voice when he spoke again was sinuous. ‘That, my Kitten, would depend, I think, upon the mother. Certainly, it would depend.’
‘What are you trying to say?’
‘Before the eyes of the world and the law you would have some difficulty, I believe, in proving your suitability. You have been far from discreet in your dealings with that Organ Grinder. The town is rife with gossip. I gave you permission to live your own life, I’m not denying that. But it was for a purpose, to further our life here together. Do you think I haven’t watched you? Did you think you had taken me in about all those Legation things? Oh Amy, silly Kitten.’ He threw back his head with a shout of laughter.
‘But I have made up my mind. I want to go.’ She forced the words from her.
‘Well, go then, Kitten, go where you please. You’re as free as you wish to be. But the children, I can tell you, I intend shall stay with me. Any court of law will award custody to me. There is the proof of a hundred witnesses to determine the kind of woman you are. No court has ever placed the future of impressionable children in the hands of a mother of your disposition. I have all the advantages, Amy, the law is on my side. Your own wilfulness has trapped you.’ He gave a snort of amusement and sat down in the opposite chair.
She could not speak. There was no doubt that he was right. She began to shiver, she had been tense as a ball of tight string all evening. He had trapped her, he could read her like a book. Reggie regarded her calmly above his brandy glass.
‘So you see, Amy, unless you are prepared to give up your children, there is no escape.’ He spoke the words slowly, like a rope he wound about her again. ‘Have a sip. It’ll help you feel better.’ He leaned across the space between them to push his glass at her. His voice was kinder; he had her in his hand again. She drank a mouthful and let the stuff shoot through her. ‘You’ll soon forget all the high-faluting ideas that Organ Grinder stuffed into your head. He’s dead, Amy. You’ll forget him, too. He took you in with all his twaddle; I know the type he was. We can still do well together, Amy – no need for all this silly talk.’ She looked at him and saw in the light of the fire the old arithmetic in his eyes. They sat in silence. There was nothing she could say.
It began suddenly beneath them, an abrupt roll, like the swell of a ship beneath their feet. The floor twitched in the dark as if it pushed up towards them. They looked at each other in fear. Amy started from her chair. The second tremor began as the first ended, one folding into the other with a new and violent movement. The boards moved and shuddered beneath them. There was a rumbling that seemed as much the stirring earth as the groaning, straining house, its bones and windows shivering like a set of nervous teeth.
‘Get out!’ he yelled. ‘Get out!’
‘The children.’
‘I’ll get them.’ He flung her towards the door. Already they heard the screams of Rachel at the earthquake and the children’s terrified voices. Amy turned in panic towards their room, but he pushed her to the stairs and she saw that already they were behind her and would follow. As the house steadied another shock began, a sickening, uncanny movement pitching her off balance against the wall. She heard the crashing of glass and the creaking of the convulsing house. It was as if some storm-caught ship was tossing her about within its belly. She ran out into the garden and clung to the trunk of a pine. Everywhere was covered with snow, the ground shuddered again. She saw Reggie with both children in his arms stagger over the snowy patch of lawn, his footprints reeling like a drunk. And as suddenly as it had begun, the earth steadied and was still. She looked up, relaxing her grip on the tree. The moon streamed down, luminous in the black, icy sky. Above her in the branches crows flapped, disturbed from sleep, cawing their annoyance. They beat up a wind that fanned her; one swooped low and brushed her arm. All over the Bluff were the cries of children, the barking of dogs and the twittering of awakened birds. She looked up and the sky was full of agitated wings. The still snow upon the ground gave no indication of the violence that had passed beneath. The chimneystack of the neighbouring house had collapsed and left a raw stub, like an amputated limb.
The children ran to her, sobbing, across the white grass. She took them in her arms, feeling the throb of their small hearts and the wetness of their cheeks. She held them tightly, her arms locked about them both. Beyond their warmth, she remembered again that other earthquake on the bridge at Enoshima and all that it had precipitated. It was as if she ached for a country she was exiled from forever. She held the children closer still, her cheeks as wet as theirs. Before them Reggie stood silently, his feet planted wide, his face inert with tiredness and relief. All he wanted to do was to go to sleep. He had had enough for one night.
9
Yokohama, 13 January 1897
The Japan Weekly Mail summary of news:
Yokohama has been beaten twice this week at football by Naval teams.
Her Imperial Majesty the Empress Dowager, Consort of the late Emperor Komei, died on the 11th inst. Court and official mourning has been ordered. The interment will take place in Kyoto, the Emperor and Empress attending.
The British Minister, Sir Ernest Satow, proceeded to the Aoyama Palace on Tuesday on a visit of condolence on the death of Her Imperial Majesty the Empress Dowager. Afterwards His Excellency proceeded to the Imperial Palace on the same errand.
This week has been the coldest during the present winter. Skating has been indulged in at Yokohama, Shinagawa, Hakone and Tokyo.
All the foreign legations in Tokyo have their flags flying at half-mast as a token of mourning for the death of the Empress Dowager.
From all the great trading centres of the world comes news this week of a dearth of subsidiary coins.
SEVENTH DAY OF TRIAL
Amy listened in silence to her own words. Robert Russell read from her statement at the inquest last November. His voice filled the court, edged by a sarcasm that ensnared her story. His tone brought it up like a helpless fish on a hook for the judgement of the world. She remembered the inquest; she had come straight from the funeral to face them all. They had been arranged in displeasure before her, their eyes sullen with thoughts not yet released into conviction. Her fear had been perforated then by hope and determination. But now in Robert Russell’s mouth her words sounded suspect, even to herself. She listened to him reiterate all she had said that November day about the visit to her home of the mysterious woman they knew as Annie Luke. He picked up the bundle of her letters and looked up at Judge Bowman.
‘The letter, Exhibit Q2, my lord, is from the deceased. It is dated Wednesday, 14 October and addressed to Miss Annie Luke, Post Office, Yokohama. It reads:
I feel greatly distressed about you ever since I got your card last Saturday and have been endeavouring to find you. I wish to and will help you if I can only find you. Meet me this evening at 5.30 on the Bund opposite the Club Hotel. R.
Mr Russell continued again with Amy’s statement. ‘On 29 October I received an anonymous note delivered this time on the doorstep: “Beware, dare to speak one word of the truth and you shall never leave Japan alive.” Another letter postmarked 1 November was received in the same manner: “I have done what I can for you, true I have made you suffer, but I have written to Mr Russell and Mr Easely. Yokohama will be troubled no more by Annie Luke.”’
Mr Russell looked up and surveyed the court before speaking again in tones of disapproval. ‘The following letters were put in at Mr Easely’s suggestion and sworn to by him, my lord,’ he said.
Mr Easely stood up. ‘May the letters be read now?’ he asked.
Mr Russell took up a letter dated 29 October and addressed to Mr Easely from the mysterious Annie Luke.
Mr Easely. I do not know you, probably have never met you, but I gathered from Saturday’s papers that you will be acting on behalf of the wife of the man who was to me the world and more than the world. Dead men tell no tales; no, nor dead women either, for I am going to join him. Do you know what waiting means for eight long weary ye
ars? I have watched and waited, watched till I knew he would grow tired of her, that silly little fool, and then I came to him. What is the result? We, between us, electrify Japan. I have never professed to be a good woman, but for the sake of a few lines I do not see why I should let a silly innocent woman be condemned for what she knows nothing about. By the time you get this I shall be well on my way to join him, my twin soul. You may call this what you like, but I think deep down in my heart I write for the sake of the boy who is so like his father, let his mother take heed that he not enter into temptation. I shall write to the prosecutor. Annie Luke.
‘That was put in at Mr Easely’s request?’ Judge Bowman asked.
‘Yes. I had no intention of putting it in or of bringing it before the jury, but Mr Easely called for it.’ Mr Russell smirked. ‘I found it on my desk one morning after the postal delivery.’
Jack Easely rose at once to object to Robert Russell’s insinuation.
‘Mr Easely has also called for the letter from Annie Luke he received on 11 November last, which, it may be remembered, was after the inquest and on the first day of the magisterial proceedings to formally charge the accused with the murder of her husband. It may also be remembered that after the inquest was concluded Mr Easely offered by advertisement in the public papers a reward for the identification of the writer or writers of these letters. But the writer was not forthcoming.’ Mr Russell smirked. With a flourish he produced his pocket watch to precipitate the noontime conclusion. Judge Bowman nodded, and gathered his papers together. The court then adjourned for tiffin. Amy Redmore stepped down from the dock.
At two o’clock Judge Bowman rapped his hammer, intent upon afternoon order. The weight of all that threatened Amy did not obstruct the sense of entertainment throbbing through the court. The audience had lunched in high spirits at the Club or the Grand Hotel. They had returned a Bordeaux of an inauspicuous year, ordered champagne for a birthday and carried their celebration of life back into the court. Voices discussed the quality of suet crust and the superiority of meringue. Bitten-off sentences fell about Amy, voices juggling digestion with anticipation of the afternoon’s exposure. There was talk of the death of the Empress Dowager and complaints about the rules of mourning requested of the foreign community by the Royal Household. Loud decisions were taken to ignore the request and cancel no enjoyments.
‘Will those gentlemen standing in the public part of the court room take their seats so that there is standing room for others coming in,’ Judge Bowman ordered above the noise. At five past two it was quiet enough for proceedings to begin.
Bertha Kaufmann was called and sworn and examined by Mr Russell. Amy’s heart beat hard just looking at the woman. She heard again her ingratiating voice and thick, flat Swiss-German accent. She had a cold and reached nervously to pick a nostril before she realized what she was doing.
‘You are a Swiss citizen and nursery nurse to Mrs Phelps’s children?’ Mr Russell began, pacing up and down.
‘Yes, I am living here as a nursery nurse.’
‘You were an intimate friend of Miss Jessica Mary Flack, nursery governess to Mrs Redmore’s children?’
‘Yes, I was.’ Bertha Kaufmann burst suddenly into tears. A chair was brought forward for her.
‘Do you remember receiving from Miss Flack fragments of paper?’
‘Yes, I remember,’ Bertha Kaufmann sniffed.
‘Did you stitch these fragments together?’ Robert Russell picked up and waved Dicky Huckle’s pile of letters at her.
‘Yes I did.’
‘Were you aware what these fragments were and where they had been found?’ Mr Russell asked.
‘They were letters Mrs Redmore had torn up and dropped into her wastepaper basket,’ Bertha answered.
Mr Russell nodded. ‘Did you tell Miss Flack that you knew how to piece letters together?’ Jack Easely insisted on cross-examination.
‘No, I found that out for myself.’
‘Did she ask you to do it for her?’
‘No, I offered to her to do it.’
‘You advised her to collect these scraps, did you?’
‘I did so.’
‘And why did you do that?’
‘In case it should be known that gentlemen went down to 169, not in the form of house friends, that possibly it might put – possibly a false stain might be brought up against my friend. In that case those letters would be a written proof to the contrary.’
‘That would only be as regards Mr Huckle, I presume? Did you think your friend’s character stood in need of such protection?’ Jack Easely asked.
‘It would not be evidence if I were to say anything more.’ Bertha was suddenly coyly evasive. She blew her nose.
Judge Bowman leaned forward in annoyance. ‘But answer the question. Mr Easely is the judge of what he wants to elicit from you.’
Bertha Kaufmann pouted. ‘I am not English. I am not understanding quite the meaning.’ She frowned.
‘You say you wanted to prevent a false stain resting on your friend, and Mr Easely asks was her character such that she needed this?’ Judge Bowman explained. Bertha was shocked.
‘No. Oh no, no,’ she cried out in alarm. Judge Bowman leaned back in his chair. Soon Bertha stepped self-righteously from the witness box. There was a murmur of sympathy throughout the court.
It had been a day of some confusion. People shook their heads in exasperation, and argued privately far into the night over the mysterious Annie Luke, heard about that morning. Could it be she who had murdered Reggie Redmore? Did she even exist beyond imagination? And if she did, where was she now? Why had no one ever seen her, except for Amy Redmore?
10
Yokohama, 1896
She had finally arrived. Early March was a lion and raining hard, a gale whipped the ragged loquat trees until they creaked and gasped. Jessie Flack stood in the cold, narrow hall, a bulging, black leather holdall held firmly in her hand. On the best of days the hall was dark, and now, as the rain beat down on the roof of the porch, a funereal gloom had settled upon it. She had forgotten to leave her umbrella outside; it dripped in a pool at her feet. Rachel took it with a giggle and put it in the stand. Amy observed her from the drawing room. Reggie stumbled through the door, blown in with the force of the wind, accompanied by a committee of brown and shrivelled leaves. Rachel giggled again and sprang forward to scoop them into her apron pocket. Jessie Flack looked about her, surveying the destination she had come so far to see. Weeks of sickness upon the ship had stamped a waxen melancholy on her unresponsive face.
The small square of stained glass beside the door was thick and muddy-coloured, the floor creaked and the portal of the room before her was out-of-true. There was a feeling of shoddy compression in the narrow, panelled hall that she saw would not be alleviated by the house beyond. It was not what she had expected. It could not compare to the big house, Cranage, where she had gone with her mother for an interview. She had expected more of 169 The Bluff. It was too late now to regret such things, it was the opportunity that mattered. Mr Redmore was jovial, full of questions and concern from the moment he had met her at the dock. She had minded her manners, suppressing the excitement, curiosity and horror that filled her simultaneously at her first sight of Japan. It was nothing like she had expected, although what she had expected would be difficult to tell. Mr Redmore, she was grateful to see, would be a generous employer. And if Mrs Redmore was like her mother, she was sure she would be happy with them.
Amy observed her. Her mother had interviewed Jessie Flack and recommended her. She had prepared for an ample, robust-cheeked girl, redolent of health and Somerset. Jessie Flack was thin and wiry, her colour bloodless and blue-veined. Propriety tightened her lips. She was twenty-six, her mother had written, two years younger than Amy. She appeared older; there was no compromise in her face. She would be efficient, Amy thought, capable and quick. She had been in service since the age of sixteen, and her references were good. Amy stepped forward into the hall to
welcome Jessie Flack. The children clung to the banisters at the top of the stairs, faces pressed between the bars, watching the scene below.
‘Is her Jekky?’ Tom’s voice asked. ‘Going look after us?’ He was already almost three and in need of Jessie Flack’s discipline. Cathy was an amenable five.
Jessie Flack dropped a curtsey. ‘Ma’am,’ she said. Amy responded with a smile.
There was a small box room adjoining the nursery which they had cleared and converted for Jessie. The children hung shyly about the door as Amy showed her the room.
‘Why, Ma’am, they’re two angels,’ Jessie remarked as Amy beckoned the children in.
Tom bared his teeth. ‘I’m a devil,’ he said defending his reputation. Cathy silently observed with a wary smile. Jessie Flack crouched down to her fat, shiny bag.
‘Here,’ she laughed, drawing out two small brown paper parcels. ‘This is for young Master Tom and this for Miss Catherine.’
There was a satin drawstring bag for Cathy and some handkerchiefs with his name on for Tom. ‘I made them myself for you both,’ Jessie smiled. Tom approached her stoutly in recognition.
‘We been ship. We been Somerset,’ he informed her with swagger.
‘You were too small to remember,’ Cathy accused him, then tugged at Amy’s skirt. ‘My name’s embroidered on my present too,’ she whispered, smiling shyly. Amy left the children crowding round Jessie as she unpacked her trunk upon the bed. She was suitable, there was no doubt.
From that first moment Jessie Flack showed her worth and ability. The children were tidier, more occupied and disciplined. Overnight Tom’s nose ceased to run; Cathy was learning to knit. They reeled off improbable proverbs and the occasional multiplication. Cathy could soon relate bits of Somerset folklore and knew the difference between a house martin and a swallow. Tom allowed his nails to be cut. It was all a relief in the right direction. And Rachel was only too happy to relinquish the children and assume the position of lady’s maid. She no longer needed eyes at the back of her head and had time for the groom in the stables.
