by Meira Chand
11
Yokohama, 20 January 1897
The Japan Weekly Mail summary of news:
A telegram received from the Japanese Consulate at Bombay states that the black death is very rife and has attacked a foreigner employed at the Japanese Consulate.
In consequence of the death of the Empress Dowager certain charitable institutions as well as persons over seventy years will receive presents of money from the authorities.
In deference to the feelings of the Japanese nation the Grand Concert at the Public Hall and the Cantata at the Union Church next week have been postponed.
The staff of the Yokohama Post and Telegraph office is greatly overworked at present, the pressure of business being phenomenal.
Mr Carlisle, Secretary of the United States Treasury, estimates a deficit of sixty-four million dollars for the current financial year.
TWELFTH DAY OF TRIAL
Yokohama was baffled, confused and angry. Jessie Flack had been suddenly and inexplicably arrested on the same charge as Amy: the murder of Reggie Redmore. It is not possible, people said. Unheard of, and upon what charges? The town was in an uproar. At Jack Easeley’s insistence the British Consulate had finally and reluctantly issued the warrant. The grounds for this unprecedented move were the likelihood of Jessie Flack having written the Annie Luke letters and of having copied her mistress’s writing. There was her access to the deceased, the proof of her having purchased arsenic for the Redmores, besides the whispered implication of a secret liaison with Reggie. Amy smiled to herself, her face grey and pinched, satisfied at the turn of events. Jessie had thought herself cleverer than Amy, but now in a separate trial she would speak out at last against Jessica Flack.
Jack Easely had warned her already about the climate in the town at the charge against Jessie. ‘There is an outcry, and it has destroyed any sympathy left for you in most people’s eyes.’
‘I do not care any more about people,’ Amy answered.
Jack Easely shook his head. ‘It has changed the question in most people’s minds from “Did Amy Redmore murder her husband?” to “Since murder has been done, did Amy Redmore or Jessica Flack murder Reginald Redmore?” If you can see the difference, that is,’ he remarked grimly, looking at her hard. She twisted her rings and did not meet his eyes.
‘And people are already saying I have trumped up charges to arrest the Flack woman so that you can give evidence against her. It’s not turning out as I thought. If you are holding anything back you must tell me now. Tell me the truth,’ he demanded.
‘I have told you the truth,’ she said.
From then onwards for a brief few days they went backwards and forwards between court room and court room. The preliminary proceedings against Jessie Flack began early in the morning before the commencement each day of Amy Redmore’s trial. The strain and confusion were impossible. It seemed to Amy they were the harassed actors in a serious but unfortunate play that had quickly turned to farce. They scurried hither and thither, they improvised words and hypotheses against a total ignorance of timing. It was worse than a ludicrous parody performed at the Gaiety Theatre. They seemed to prove only their own exhaustion. And it came to nothing. Within days a motion was passed that their evidence was not strong enough to support the application for a full trial at this stage against Jessie Flack. Amy’s own trial would not be suspended, and Jessie was out and free on bail. The proceedings against her were adjourned until such time as Amy’s case was concluded and the verdict known.
‘It has all done you no good,’ Jack Easely said in despair. ‘I should not have allowed you to persuade me. The town is set square against us both for attempting to charge Jessie Flack. In their eyes she is an innocent woman and a further victim of your guile. I’m just repeating gossip,’ he said hurriedly as Amy’s face grew angry. But Jack Easely seemed relieved at the adjournment of the proceedings. He was alone, without help, in his counsel for Amy. He spent each night deep in books and briefs without the aid of the endless assistants retained by the prosecution. They were both wearing badly now under the strain, white and tense and bleary-eyed from sleeplessness. Dark circles edged their cheekbones and the hollows of their faces. And the witnesses called by the prosecution seemed endless.
‘Irrelevant, purposely irrelevant,’ Jack Easely exploded, pacing up and down before Amy. He had already complained to Judge Bowman.
‘This case is being unnecessarily expanded. It is growing from day to day, and I object to witnesses being called, copies of whose depositions I have not received. It puts me in the position that I do not know the nature of the evidence nor how to meet it in cross-examination.’ He looked in accusation at Robert Russell. ‘My learned friend wishes to both confuse and impress the jury with the weight by quantity of his case. I have to defend a prisoner who is unable to obtain any other counsel.’ Mr Russell had jumped triumphantly to his feet to object to Mr Easely’s accusation. Voices were raised.
Judge Bowman called for silence with his hammer. He nodded on high in condescending sympathy for Jack Easely but not for his task. ‘Your position is perfectly understandable. You have to defend someone who would otherwise not be defended. Mr Easely asks for the morning tomorrow to look over his papers. Would Mr Russell have any objections to make?’
‘No, my lord, I have none,’ Mr Russell replied, his words rounded and vulpine.
And each day now Dr Whiting Sweeting Worden was called by the prosecution to inform on the rapid rate of heart and pulse of the immobile Jessie Flack, prostrated by shock in the severest of forms since the announcement of her arrest. The freedom of bail and the sympathy of the town had failed to revive her.
‘I have again visited Miss Flack at Miss Brittain’s, the missionary at No. 2 Bluff.’
‘What is the condition of her health?’
‘Her heart is in a weak condition through shock.’
‘Can you judge if she is in a fit condition to give evidence to this court, if not today then tomorrow or the day after?’ Mr Russell inquired.
‘In my opinion she is not and cannot,’ said Dr Whiting Sweeting Worden.
There was a murmur of sympathy that flowered at the mention of Jessie Flack’s condition. Someone shouted ‘Shame’ and old Mr Porter stood and issued a single word from beneath his mulberry nose, looking straight at Amy. ‘Humbug,’ he yelled. People nodded in agreement; his neighbour restrained him and pulled him down. Judge Bowman banged sharply with his hammer, and Mr Moss ordered silence in the court. The rows of eyes settled once more on Amy. They accused her of dismantling conclusions already comfortably decided. They were stern with her wish to escape.
There was a large attendance, chiefly of loafers from the purlieus of Chinatown. They waited for the appearance of compatriots whose words the next day would appear in the papers and live for evermore. There had been shopkeepers and rikisha men ad infinitum; handwriting experts of dubious competence were called to attest that Amy’s ‘i’s’ and her ‘y’s’ imitated Jessie’s, or that Jessie’s ‘f’s’ and ‘r’s’ might deliberately copy her own. From the beginning she herself had marvelled at the similarity of their handwriting. There were casual acquaintances met upon walks asked to give accounts of her expression; her diary was quoted without conclusion.
The shopkeepers, bookkeepers and assistants at chemists, and the handwriting expert, Benjamin Mason, who was no expert but a humble teacher, briefly chess editor of the Japan Mail, filled days ten, eleven and twelve. Witnesses passed one another in a verbose and continuous stream; they declared to God in the British manner, they declared by Scottish oath, or as Jews beneath their hats. Amy’s attention lagged; all voices seemed now but one voice that went on without an end.
Via an interpreter Hayashi Shichiro, employed at the chemist Maruya to attend to the sale of drugs, confirmed through a hedge of protruding teeth Amy’s frequent purchases of arsenic from his store during Reggie’s last week. His face was slow to comprehend, his smile affable but inane.
‘I am a
shopman of the store. I sold arsenic on three consecutive days, on 19, 20 and 21 October, to a foreign woman, one ounce on each occasion. On the 19th with the arsenic I also sold sugar of lead.’
‘Can you describe the person who came to your shop?’
‘The person who came was a woman, a foreigner. She was not tall, not stout. I cannot say who she was. I cannot actually identify her.’
‘Then at what time on the 19th did she come? At what time on the 20th? In the forenoon or the afternoon? Is the time not written?’
The voices struck sharp and quick about the dragging patches of Hayashi Shichiro’s voice, like an orchestra in play. Amy no longer listened. Sounds came through, questions, words without connection. The warder touched her arm, and when she failed to respond pulled on it hard.
‘Will you look now at Mrs Redmore and say whether you recognize her as the lady who came to your shop on the 19, 20 and 21 October.’
‘I do not know. I cannot say I recognize her. She might have come. On the 21st Miss Flack came.’
Amy sat down again.
‘How do you know Miss Flack’s face? Why can you recognize her?’
‘When she came on the 21st I did not know her name, but she came again on the 24th with another foreign woman and we had a considerable conversation. From that time dates my knowledge of who she is. She came to pay for what was bought on the 21st. She wanted the paper given on the 21st that was signed for by Mrs Redmore.’
William Benjamin Mason, handwriting expert, was recalled yet again and sworn yet again in the Scottish fashion.
‘And are the “d’s” also like Miss Flack’s?’
‘No. Miss Flack’s are slightly turned up, the perpendicular stroke being slightly hooked.’
‘What does Mrs Redmore’s “d” do?’
‘It ends abruptly,’ said Benjamin Mason.
Jack Easely jumped up to protest. ‘But when you find that in one short letter there are twelve initial “s’s” written in one way and three initial “s’s” written in the other way, by what method or reasoning do you come to the conclusion that the three are more characteristic than the twelve?’
‘I explained that yesterday, and these were the three I selected.’ Benjamin Mason pursed his lips obstinately.
Amy turned her head and looked out of the window until the voices faded from her ears.
12
Yokohama, 1896
From her chair Jessie looked Rachel up and down, her lips tightened in distaste.
‘You’re more than a few months gone. You ought to be ashamed. Have you told the mistress?’ Jessie questioned.
Rachel shook her head.
‘You can’t hide it much longer. And you brought up by nuns in an orphanage. It’s that groom in the stables, I’ll bet. How’re you going to keep a baby?’
Rachel hung her head, miserable and sick. She hated Jessie Flack.
‘She’ll throw you out when she knows,’ Jessie taunted. She returned her attention to her work. She had fetched a sheet of soft paper from the privy, arranging the bits of torn letter on it, matching, changing, shaking her head before securing them with her needle and thread. ‘I’ve got it all now and not a bit missing. I can stitch as well as Bertha.’ Rachel turned towards the door. ‘You’ll stay here, miss,’ Jessie ordered. Rachel waited sullenly, her face changing as the shadows moved, in one light oriental, in another occidental. Jessie beckoned her forward, fixing a last ragged snippet of letter. She smiled and clapped her hands.
‘It’s from that Mr Huckle, like ’em all. Now listen to this. I’ll show you what our mistress is. I read you that last one, you know what that said.’ Jessie began to read. Rachel observed her in deepening hatred. What did it matter what the mistress did? On the desk before Jessie was a paper with Mrs Redmore’s writing – a letter or prescription, Rachel could not tell; she had no proficiency in reading. Beside it was a half-written copy. Jessie stood up whilst reading and walked towards the light. It was difficult for Rachel to comprehend the sense of such complicated English. She could understand the words though not in the end what the letter said, but nothing so vital was lost on Jessie. She gave a whoop as she finished the letter, clutching it to her, rejoicing in her fortune. ‘She’s no better than a harlot is our precious mistress. I’ve all the evidence I could wish, if I ever need it.’
‘You is wicked, bad like a devil,’ Rachel said. ‘And why are you copying her writing?’
‘A bit of amusement,’ Jessie answered. ‘You never know when it may come in useful. And look, this is her writing and this is mine; there’s not that much difference anyways. If she tells any lies to my parents, I’ve plenty to prove what she is. It’s for my own protection.’
‘You is a devil, wicked. Wicked,’ Rachel repeated fearfully.
Jessie sat down at the desk again when Rachel was gone. Mrs Redmore’s writing stared up at her from a chit, a shopping list of the day before. She put it away and took out a clean paper and began to write.
‘Amy Redmore. A. Redmore. Amy. Reggie. Dearest Reggie. Your loving wife Amy.’ She had it perfectly now, without even looking at Mrs Redmore’s writing. ‘Amy Redmore,’ she wrote again. The name plunged deeper and deeper within her. It was as if she were possessed. Each time she wrote Mrs Redmore’s name the same feelings of hate and excitement brewed up. She did not even know why she needed to keep writing, devouring Mrs Redmore again and again. She could never look long enough at her, was never close enough to her neat, firm body, in the pew at church or beside her in the nursery. Alone in her room she arranged her own hair in the style Mrs Redmore favoured. She had a Chinese shoemaker sew shoes identical to the French ones Mrs Redmore had bought in Lane Crawford, and used them secretly on her hours off. She stole one of Mrs Redmore’s garters and wore it next to her skin. At lunch on Sunday, beside her employers, she watched the exchange of looks, the thick currents of emotion between them, her heart pumping in anticipation. Staring at Mr Redmore, she wondered what it would be like to be Mrs Redmore, held in his grasp, his body pressed against her. The feelings quickened in her. And invariably, as these thoughts passed through her mind, Mr Redmore raised his eyes and observed her steadily, until she blushed and looked away. Again and again each Sunday lunch. Mrs Redmore appeared not to notice, chatting to the children. Mrs Redmore. Jessie saw her again in her mind, standing before the mirror, arched against Mr Huckle, the deep, naked vee of her flesh blatant above the neckline of her dress as Mr Huckle kissed her. Jessie drew a sharp breath at the nursery desk. Her body felt on fire. She took another piece of paper from the drawer.
‘Amy Redmore, Amy Huckle, Amy Armitage,’ she wrote and gave a sudden harsh laugh. Folding up the paper, she placed it between the leaves of the little birthday book she carried in her pocket. She tore up the other papers and threw them away. But even as she did so she knew that nothing would destroy the hold Amy Redmore had upon her. She hated her, hated her.
*
The ball at the Chinese Legation was a lavish affair. Amy and Reggie had been invited, Mabel was there with Patrick. They delivered their wraps to an army of servants in magnificent costumes and were marched in procession to the ballroom where the Chinese Minister and Lady Yu received them. On the stairs they passed the Baroness d’Anethan, regal in green satin.
‘Did you ever see the likes of her?’ Mabel whispered, staring at Lady Yu, who was dressed in mauve brocade trimmed with white ostrich feathers and a mass of barbaric jewels. ‘Why on earth doesn’t she keep to her own Chinese dress?’
‘She looks exactly like a picture of a Begum,’ Amy decided. ‘The Minister’s jade ring is said to be worth five thousand dollars.’ Chinese guests in their exotic clothes mixed curiously with the uniforms of naval and military officers, kimonoed ladies and European guests.
‘Did you ever see such a mish-mash of dress?’ Mabel asked. There were Chinese and Japanese in European attire too, and the Europeans had struck out adventurously in strange combinations of colour and style. ‘Maybe they all th
ink it’s a fancy dress ball,’ Mabel commented, observing an American compatriot draped in a kimono.
‘How quaintly the Chinese gentlemen dance the Russian contre-danse. Their pigtails come alive,’ Amy said.
‘Yes, and just look at that one over there having a fine old time with you know who.’ Mabel nodded in the direction of Mrs Bolithero, who danced abandonedly with her Chinese partner in his long satin embroidered gown. His pigtail flew and thumped his back at Mrs Bolithero’s exertions; she whirled him round and round. Amy looked at her in horror. She must have been invited through the manager of the Mercantile Bank, who watched her possessively from a chair, his leg bound up with gout. Reggie also watched her, forced to hover on the sidelines talking business with a group of men behind Mr Buchanan’s chair.
‘I hate to tell you, but he bought her those emerald earrings she’s wearing,’ Mabel whispered again. ‘I know because, when I went into Schultz about my rubies, the emeralds had been set aside and I was told they were sold to Mr Redmore.’
‘Does it matter?’ Amy asked. ‘It’s Reggie’s life. He can do as he wishes. We’ve come beyond those things.’
‘Furthermore,’ Mabel continued, ‘it would seem their purchase has secured him what he wanted. He’s been seen leaving her room at the Grand several times at an hour too late for propriety.’
Amy shrugged, not wishing to hear any more.
‘I’m telling you only because with Patrick I don’t mind what he does as long as I know. Not to know is not to be in control, and that’s such a humiliation,’ Mabel concluded, eyeing the Chinese Minister, a Manchu of powerful weight and height attired in a coat of yellow brocade lined with Mongolian fur. ‘Are you sure he’s not sneaked more of your money to buy her those emeralds?’ Mabel inquired. Amy laughed. It was not possible now that Dicky had taken her affairs in hand. And yet the seed, once sown by Mabel, grew unfairly in her mind. She was deliberately flippant when asking Reggie about Mrs Bolithero’s earrings, after returning home.
