“You did? That is, he told you he was—”
“He said he had business there. I was to meet his train and have tea ready for him.”
She waited for any further questions I might have, but I shook my head. Questions could wait until later. We were getting to the heart of the problem.
“So I had the whole day, and I went a little mad, I think. I had the chance and I took it.”
“The chance to do what?” I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the answer.
“To visit Miriam’s school, of course.”
19
AN anticlimax can feel like that extra step one sometimes takes at the top of a dark flight of stairs. The foot comes down with a thump and one is jolted to the top of the head. I must have looked peculiar, because Amanda frowned and said, “Are you all right, Mrs. Martin?”
Fortunately I didn’t have to say what I’d been thinking, because there was a knock at the front door. I looked out the window. “It’s all right,” I said. “The reporters are gone. It must be Mr. Carstairs. Shall I let him in?”
“Please. But no one else!”
It was indeed the lawyer. When I opened the door, he stood looking pink cheeked and very pleased with himself.
“Mission accomplished, I think.” He all but dusted his hands together.
“And well done, too! Will they be back, do you think?”
“Not, I believe, if they think I’ll be here. I treated them to several pages of legal precedent, quoted verbatim and with citations. None of it meant anything, but those who weren’t intimidated away seemed to decide it was time for a nap.”
“If I didn’t think Alan would find out, I’d kiss you, Mr. Carstairs. Would you like to come in?”
“Unless you think I can be of further assistance, I must, alas, go back to the office. I have an appointment. My secretary rang me up on the mobile; she’s on her way to fetch me. But please call on me anytime.”
“I’ll do that.” I’d pay his bill, too. It was worth every penny to be allowed to talk to Amanda in peace.
I closed and locked the door, just in case, and called up to Amanda, “You can come down. They’ve gone away, and Mr. Carstairs doesn’t think they’ll be back.” I thought about going to the kitchen and putting the kettle on, but I’d done enough high-handed tea making in Amanda’s house. I would let her make the suggestion.
And it was, in fact, the first thing she mentioned. I wished I’d brought something in the way of food. Not that I needed anything to eat. It was early for afternoon tea, and I’d had a big lunch. But I doubted she’d eaten much, if anything, and there was no telling what was in the house.
I squelched that idea, too. Stop interfering, Dorothy. Everybody in the world doesn’t need you to run their lives for them.
She settled me in the frigid lounge and went to make the tea. I looked around. The room was scrupulously neat and almost antiseptically clean. The floor was covered with linoleum that was meant to look like wood, but didn’t. The furniture, a “suite” of sofa and two chairs, was covered in a scratchy fabric in a depressing shade somewhere between brown and gray. It looked as if it would, unfortunately, never wear out. Skimpy brown curtains hung limply beside the two small windows. The room, like the bedroom, had no ornaments, no pictures on the walls, no books. A lightbulb shielded by a small tan paper shade dangled on a cord from the middle of the ceiling.
If ever the grim questions of Amanda’s life were settled, and I was able to establish a friendly relationship with her and Miriam, I was going to buy her a cushion for that room. Or maybe two. In the brightest canary yellow I could find.
When Amanda brought in the tea, the tray held a pitcher of milk, along with the tea things and a plate of biscuits. She’d been to the store, then. I hoped she hadn’t spent every cent she had, but it wasn’t, I kept telling myself forcefully, really my business.
Extracting as much information as I could was my business. I made small talk while the tea brewed and drank some as soon as it was cool enough. Then I got down to brass tacks.
“So you went to Miriam’s school. There must have been some special reason. Is she doing badly?”
She looked at me over her teacup, an odd smile on her face. “I imagine when you say that, Mrs. Martin, you mean poor marks.”
“Well—or a behavior problem, I suppose, although I find that hard to imagine with Miriam.”
“No. She’s a quiet child, isn’t she?”
“Almost too quiet, perhaps.” I studied Amanda’s face to see if I’d gone too far, but she nodded.
“Precisely. Too quiet, too obedient, too pale. Frightened, in fact. Wouldn’t you say?”
“Well, perhaps, but she’s had a good deal to be frightened of, lately.”
“But she’s been that way for a long time. I should have done something much earlier, but I thought perhaps it was only because our household was—not quite an ordinary one.”
“Your husband was somewhat—” How should I put this? Repressive, difficult, inflexible? I took a sip of tea and tried to think of the right word.
“My husband,” said Amanda Doyle in her usual quiet, controlled manner, “was a bloody tyrant and a damnable hypocrite, and even if they put me in prison for the rest of my life for killing him, I will be freer than I ever was as his wife.”
I carefully put my cup down. “You—um—you did kill him, then?”
“No, of course not. But the police think I did, and I’m not a fool, Mrs. Martin. Or not that kind, at any rate. I know I’m apt to be arrested. I did things when I found his body that the police don’t like at all. How was I to know I oughtn’t to clean up the mess? I couldn’t let Miriam see her father like that, could I?”
“But you ought to have known, from crime novels, or television—”
“I have never read a crime novel. John didn’t allow frivolous reading. We don’t have a television set, and Father, when I lived at home, devoted the television to his interests, news and social commentary. The police told me that one is supposed to leave everything at a crime scene exactly as it is, and I understand why, now, but I didn’t know until they told me.”
“I see.” I did, too, but I wasn’t at all sure the police would. Really, the basics of forensic procedure seem like something you’d think everyone would know, but this woman had apparently lived as much out of the world as any nun. Or no, nuns these days were often very savvy women. A more apt comparison might be with the Amish communities near my Indiana home. Like them, Amanda had some contacts with the outside world, through her teaching, but her home life was so circumscribed as to be almost medieval.
“But let me tell you about Miriam. It’s important that you understand. I ought to have seen how unhappy she was long ago, you see, but I didn’t. Not until this year. Because this year she was the same age as the children I was teaching.”
“And you began to see the differences.”
“Yes. I’ve always thought the children at St. Stephen’s were oversophisticated, too old for their age. But this year I began to compare Miriam with them. The way they dress. Their games. Their interests. Their speech. Oh, in every way, they are simply more alive than she is. And I began to see that it wasn’t that my schoolchildren were too noisy and naughty, but that Miriam was too quiet and obedient.”
“In America we have a saying: ‘Everyone’s out of step but John.’”
“That’s it. I had thought everyone was out of step but Miriam, and then I saw it was she who was different, was wrong somehow. And I began to worry, and to wonder why.”
“Did you try to talk to her about it?”
“Of course, but it was almost impossible. This is a small house, with no privacy. Even when John wasn’t in the room, he might have been able to hear us, and of course she wouldn’t say anything with him listening.”
“She was that frightened of him?”
“We both were. He never struck us, you know. Never once did he lay a hand on either of us. I don’t expect you to understand. Miriam s
ays your husband is a kind man. You wouldn’t know how words can hurt, and cold disapproval, and hatred. He hated us. And we him.”
I felt cold to my bones. I must have shivered, for Amanda said, “Shall I make more tea?”
“Please.” I would have liked to suggest that she turn up the heat. There was an electric radiator in the room, but electricity costs money, and Amanda had little to spare. I drew my coat closer around me and hoped she wouldn’t notice.
She did, though, when she came back with a fresh pot. “Why, you’re cold,” she said in a surprised tone, as if she’d just become aware of it. “Why didn’t you say something? I thought it was only me. I’ve been cold for years.” She said it matter-of-factly, as she turned on the radiator, and I wondered how much of her discomfort had been physical and how much a reflection of the emotional temperature in the Doyle household.
“So you tried to talk to Miriam, but without much success,” I prompted.
Amanda nodded. “Even when John was out, she would say very little. It was as if she was afraid even to think things he shouldn’t know. And she grew paler and paler, and thinner and thinner, and sometimes at night I would look in on her, and there would be tears drying on her face. And I knew I had to do something.”
“Were you thinking of leaving your husband?”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t do that.”
“Because of your father, I suppose?”
She sighed. “I worried so much, over the years, about keeping the great secret. I don’t know why I cared anymore, honestly. Perhaps it was habit, perhaps it was for Miriam’s sake. It’s not pleasant to be known as illegitimate. Perhaps it was because I was afraid of losing my job if it were known. But I knew John would tell, and there would be consequences. And then, of course, I had no money. So no, I couldn’t leave him.”
“What then?”
“I didn’t know, not then. But something had to be done. For myself, I could stand it. I had made my bed, as John never tired of telling me, and I could lie in it. But I could not stand by and watch my daughter suffer. So when John told me he would be away for a day, I decided to go to her school and see what her situation was there.”
“To talk to her teachers, you mean?”
“Oh, no. I knew I couldn’t talk to any of them. I didn’t dare even let them know who I was.”
“But surely they’d recognize you! They all go to your church, don’t they?”
“Chapel. And it is not mine. It was John’s. Yes, they are all of that faith, but I had no close contact with them. They despised me because they knew I was not really one of them. And of course they knew about Miriam. John had made sure they knew of all my sins. That made them despise me even more, and her, too.”
“But the teachers would know you from other school visits, wouldn’t they? I always used to know the parents of most of my pupils.”
“I had never visited the school.”
“But—but an involved parent is—”
“Don’t you think I know that? John wouldn’t allow it.”
I could think of nothing to say.
“You don’t know what he was like, Mrs. Martin. Don’t judge me too harshly. You don’t know.”
“I’m beginning to,” I said grimly. “Go on.”
“It’s hard to talk about it. I was so afraid, you see. Not for myself, but if anyone had recognized me and told John, Miriam would have suffered. And I had so little time to think about it. John told me only that morning, the Monday morning. He got up very early, and woke me and Miriam, and said we must breakfast early, because he had to catch the six thirty-four to London. Business, he said. I couldn’t ask, of course. He never told me anything. But I thought it must be chapel business of some sort, because his job at the bank wouldn’t take him to London. So all I could think of was that I could go to Miriam’s school without his knowing.”
“But why didn’t you call Catherine and tell her you needed a personal day? The faculty must get a certain amount of time off for that sort of thing.”
“I suppose we do,” she said vaguely. “I’ve almost never taken any leave. But in any case I couldn’t tell anyone, anyone at all, or it might have got back to John. I was sorry about letting Catherine down, but this was for Miriam. I’d never have had the courage to do it otherwise.
“I took John to the station. I can drive, you know; I simply never do, because John takes—took the car. Then I took Miriam to school and dropped her off. I was careful to hide my face, so no one would see. Then I went home and sat down and thought hard about what I had to do. And as soon as the shops were open, I withdrew some money from the bank and went to Oxfam and bought a wig.”
“A wig. How clever of you! Nothing disguises a woman like a wig.”
“It was a cheap one, of course, and very ugly, but that didn’t matter. I didn’t dare buy anything blond, or red, although that would have made more difference. But my hair is long and brown, so I found something short and black and hoped it would be different enough. And I bought a gray coat—I’ve worn a brown one for years—and a gray scarf. I never wear scarves. And I got a pair of glasses. I couldn’t see terribly well with them, but that didn’t matter. Glasses change a person’s appearance a lot, too.”
“I think you did extremely well on the spur of the moment. And then you went to the school?”
“Yes. I had to take the glasses off when I drove, of course. But I parked two or three streets away and walked the rest of the way. I could see quite well enough for that. And when I got there I walked into the school office and asked to see Mrs. Rookwood.”
20
THAT startled me considerably. “Mrs. Rookwood! But she’s the church secretary!”
“How do you know that?”
“I went there yesterday. I wanted to know all I could about the place. I soon learned more than enough. Never mind. Go ahead.”
“You know, then, that Mrs. Rookwood is the wife of Elder Rookwood. She has a finger in all the pies. She is the secretary of the church, and of the school, and runs the Sunday school and the Mothers’ League and any number of other groups. She’s a terrifying woman.”
“I know.” I grimaced at the memory of Mrs. Rookwood and took a sip of my tepid tea.
“You can understand, then, why I was more afraid of her than of any of the others. But she didn’t seem to know who I was. I told her I was new in town and had heard about the school, and that I was looking for both a place to worship and a school for my son. I didn’t want to give her any idea that I had a daughter, you see.”
“Very wise.”
“I didn’t actually lie, of course, but I let her think that I had rather a lot of money. The coat had been a good one, and it still looked nearly new. I hated to burn it afterward.”
“Burn it—oh, yes, of course. You would have had to do that. And the wig.”
“Yes, only it wouldn’t burn. It melted into a horrid mess. However. Mrs. Rookwood thought I was wealthy enough to pay the school fees. They charge rather a lot, you see. So she said that it would be necessary for me to join the chapel, that they accepted only children of members, and I said that would be all right, but could I see the school first? And she took me ’round.”
She fell silent. I looked at her, and she shook her head. I waited.
There were no tears, no sobs. She bit her lip and took several deep breaths, and when she spoke again, her voice was perfectly steady, but very quiet.
“It was appalling. I have never before seen children treated that way, and I hope I never do again. It—I try not to remember, not to think that I let Miriam live in that horror for years. If I don’t think about it, perhaps someday I can forgive myself.” She took a deep breath, steeled herself to go on. “The children—there was no noise, Mrs. Martin. None at all except for the teachers’ voices. The children didn’t stir. They sat in their chairs with their hands folded on their desks and listened. In one room they were copying lines from the blackboard. One child dropped a pencil, and the fear I saw in his ey
es, in the whole room—”
Her own face was white, as were her knuckles.
“Don’t say any more. I understand.”
She ignored me. “I saw Miriam. She was just like the others. A—a frozen child. A little ice statue.” Tears were rolling down her face now. “And she saw me. She tried not to let it show on her face, but she turned pale, even paler than she usually is. I thought she was going to be sick. And there was nothing I could do to help her, nothing I could say …”
I handed her some tissues. She blotted her cheeks, blew her nose.
“I’m sorry.” She made an ambiguous gesture that might have been an apology for her display of emotion, or her failure as a parent, or her existence, or all of those things.
“Nonsense. Would you like some more tea? I can make some, if you—”
“No, thank you. I’m sure Gillian and Miriam will be home soon.” She looked around nervously. “What time is it?”
She wore no watch, and there was no clock in the room. I consulted my watch. “Goodness. After four.”
“I thought so. It’s beginning to look late. Gillian said they’d certainly be home in time for tea, and there’s more I need to tell you before they get back.”
“Yes. Did anything happen at the school? Did anyone recognize you, I mean?”
“No, no one except Miriam, and she was so—controlled. I’m sure no one noticed.”
“So then—?”
“I told Mrs. Rookwood that I was very interested in the school and would bring my son in later in the week to enroll him. She wanted a deposit on the fees, so I told her I didn’t have a check with me and would be back. Then I went to Braithwaite’s and bought a few things for Miriam, since I had some money left and she needed them, and then I went home and made a fire in the back garden, to burn the coat and the other things, and while they burned I made up my mind.”
“To do what?”
“To defy my husband.”
She said it in a rush, as though the thought still terrified her. I processed what she’d said. The light dawned. “You decided to enroll Miriam in St. Stephen’s.”
Sins Out of School Page 13
