More Than You Know

by Penny Vincenzi

  “That must have been … very nice for you both.”

  “Yes. Yes, it was. And I used to help her as much as I could, make suggestions, you know. It’s hard when it’s your first baby; you’re nervous. And Emmie was very naughty; she used to play up, given half the chance—and with Matt working so hard, I think it was nice for Eliza to have a bit of help.”

  “Which she wasn’t getting from him? I thought—”

  “Well, not during the week, no. He had his business to run.” Sandra looked defensive. “It was a twenty-four-hour job sometimes.”

  “Indeed. Hard on Eliza, perhaps?”

  “Well, no worse than most wives have to put up with.”

  “Really? Did your husband, and the husbands of your friends, work a twenty-four-hour day, as you put it?”

  “No. No, they didn’t.”

  A pause.

  “Did you get the impression she was lonely?”

  “No, I didn’t. She seemed to have plenty of friends. And a car and that—she wasn’t tied to the house; she could get out and about.”

  “So you were on good terms with her?”

  “Yes, yes, we were—then.”

  “But not anymore?”

  “No. We’re not.”

  “Did you observe any change in your daughter-in-law’s behaviour, at any point?”

  “Well … when the … the little boy died, she was very low after that, of course. Very low.”

  “Did she talk to you about it, how she felt?”

  “No. Not really. I used to offer to have Emmie for her then; she didn’t often take me up on it. She said Emmie—” She stopped, looked anxiously across at Matt.

  “Go on.”

  “She said Emmie gave her a reason for living.”

  “I see. And … did she continue to appear depressed?”

  “For a while, yes. Then she saw this doctor and she got some pills for the depression, and she seemed better.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Shaw.”

  Jennifer was wonderful, Eliza thought: very cool, very calm. She stressed that Eliza worked only two days a week, that she and Matt were never out on the same evening; they were both very devoted parents, and she dealt quite firmly with the matter of what Bruce Hayward called the habit of taking Emmie to the agency.

  “It was not a habit. It was a suggestion of mine that if Mrs. Shaw was held up in a meeting, I could save her half an hour or so by taking Emmie to her office occasionally. It was necessary for me to leave on time, as I have an invalid mother to take care of, but the offices are on my way home, and so it seemed helpful to both of us.”

  “But … did this not delay Emmie’s bedtime?”

  “Only very little. I would give her her tea first, and then drive her to Carlos Place. But it was a very unusual arrangement, as I say, very far from regular. Perhaps once a month at the most.”

  “And you would leave Emmie there, with her mother?”

  “Well … yes. Usually.”

  “And unusually?”

  “Well, once or twice, the receptionist would look after her. Just until Mrs. Shaw was out of her meeting. She would pop down and make sure Emmie was all right, and then go back to her meeting.”

  “I see. So once a month—let us say—a five-year-old child, who should have been in bed, and after her last meal of the day, was dragged across London, into an office environment, and left in the care not of a qualified child minder or her mother, but a receptionist.”

  His implication was clear: a receptionist was rather lower on the social scale than a hooker.

  “No! She wasn’t dragged across London. She was in the back of my car, and I am a very good driver. We would sing songs and tell stories on the way. It wasn’t late; it was about half past five. Emmie didn’t go to bed until at least half past six. And she loved going there; she asked every single day if we could.”

  “I see. Now we come to the night Emmeline was ill and her mother was away.”

  “Yes.”

  “Perhaps you could describe the chain of events …”

  Jennifer described them. They were exactly as detailed by Matt.

  “But I believe Mrs. Shaw’s mother was also in the house?” said Hayward.

  “Yes, she was.”

  “Why would that have been? At whose instigation?”

  “Mrs. Shaw’s. It was the first time she had left Emmie to go away on a business trip, and she felt that her mother added a … a safety net.”

  “So she didn’t entirely trust you, in other words?”

  “My lord, I object to the question.”

  “I agree, Mr. Gilmour. Carry on, Miss Grant, please.”

  “Mrs. Fullerton-Clark—that is Mrs. Shaw’s mother—was there as a backup. Emmie is devoted to her. As she is to her other grandmother.”

  “Thank you, Miss Grant.”

  Toby Gilmour stood up.

  “Miss Grant. How would you describe Emmeline? Is she shy, quiet, extroverted?”

  “Oh … well, she’s extremely bright. Very sophisticated in her patterns of thought. Not remotely shy, no. Quite … naughty. A handful, really. Oh, and very popular at school.”

  “And … has she been badly affected by the recent chain of events?”

  “She was very upset, yes, after her parents told her. They kept it from her for a long time. Her father was still living in the house, you see, so it was possible to sustain the fiction that all was well. Since then, she has suffered from nightmares, bed-wetting; she has become very much more difficult to handle. I … I feel very sorry for her,” she said simply.

  “Thank you, Miss Grant.”

  “I think,” said Clifford Rogers, “we will adjourn for the day. Thank you. We will resume in the morning at nine o’clock.”

  “Eliza, this is Toby Gilmour.”

  Toby Gilmour. The barrister. The cold, not-clever-enough barrister, who so far had done almost nothing for her. Not Toby, who had made love to her in a creaky bed only three days ago, and made her think she might be falling in love with him …

  “Oh, hallo.”

  “Look—bit of a shock. The judge has called your mother. It’s extremely unusual, but he’s concerned to make sure the child’s case is properly understood, and he’s taking a strong line on it.”

  Terror shot through her. This was really the end of it for her.

  “I’m sorry. We just have to … to hope for the best. You’re doing wonderfully, Eliza. I’m … I’m very proud of you.”

  It wasn’t very intimate, but it was something, some indication that he was at least human.

  “So just hold tight today, and then by tomorrow afternoon we should be in calmer waters. OK?”

  “Yes. OK.”

  “Oh, and Eliza …”

  “Yes?”

  “Remember not to pick your nose.”

  “Mr. Brigstocke, I believe you and Mrs. Shaw work together.”

  “Yes, yes, we do.”

  God, he looked scared, Eliza thought. And he didn’t know what the cringing, slimy private eye Jim Dodds had just let him in for.

  “She advises you on fashion as it relates to the advertisements you work on. How the models are dressed and so on. Is that right?”

  “Yes. Yes, that’s right.”

  “Is it a close working relationship? We know it extends to the personal, of course.”

  “Well … yes. We spend a lot of time together in the office.”

  “And do meetings and so on run on into the evening? I ask because, for example, of the need for Emmeline to be brought to the office.”

  “Well … yes, sometimes.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because you can’t stop thinking about a campaign, not if you’re really getting going, just because it’s six o’clock.”

  “Of course you can’t stop thinking about it. But … do the two of you continue to discuss it?”

  “Sometimes. Not often, because Eliza—Mrs. Shaw—always has to rush off home.”

  “But i
f she does … stay … you have meetings in your department?”

  “Yes, we do.”

  “And do you ever enjoy a drink while you chat?”

  “Yes, we do. I don’t believe that’s illegal.”

  “Drink—no. There is talk, according to Mr. Dodds, of other … substances. Do you and Mrs. Shaw ever partake of those?”

  A long silence.

  “Mr. Brigstocke, you are under oath.”

  “We have smoked … er, hash—very occasionally.”

  “How would you define ‘very occasionally’?”

  “Oh … once or twice.”

  “Once or twice a day?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Then … how often?”

  “During our entire association.”

  “I see. No more questions.”

  “Mr. Gilmour?”

  “No questions, Your Honour.”

  “I would now like to call Mrs. Fullerton-Clark.”

  This was it. This was when she really finally lost her. Drinking, taking drugs, abandoning Emmie in a foreign city—nothing compared to hitting her.

  “Mrs. Fullerton-Clark …”

  Clifford Rogers won’t like her, Philip Gordon thought, looking at Sarah, dressed in a skirt and twinset and, of course, pearls—her grandmother’s pearls, as Eliza could have told him—answering the questions in her rather dated upper-class voice.

  Generations of good breeding stood in that witness box—the kind that Clifford Rogers most resented.

  “So you have looked after Emmeline quite a lot over the years?”

  “Yes, I have. And enjoyed it, of course.”

  “And … did your daughter enjoy looking after her, would you say?”

  “Very much, yes. She was an excellent mother. She was very tired, of course, in the early stages, as we all are, but she coped very well.”

  “Did she ever discuss going back to work with you?”

  “Well … occasionally. She always enjoyed being a working gel …”

  Philip Gordon could almost feel the judge wince at that pronunciation.

  “But she was happy to be at home?”

  “Oh … yes. Very happy.”

  “Now, home for you all is your family seat in Wiltshire—”

  “Oh, I’d hardly call it a seat,” said Sarah. “It’s just a small country house.”

  “I see. How many bedrooms does it have?”

  “Ten—well, it depends how you count them, whether you include the rooms on the top floor. If you do … then … ten. Yes.”

  “Not too small then. And you have continued to live there since your husband died?”

  “Yes. Yes, I have.”

  “Your son didn’t inherit it? Is it not true that the house required a great deal of restoration, and that no one in the family could afford it?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “And your son-in-law bought the house—that you broke a trust to make it possible and that he has spent a lot of money doing it up and so on. And he allows you to live there?”

  “Yes. That is correct. Matthew has been a very kind, generous son-in-law.”

  “Indeed. And how often do the young family come down?”

  “Oh … in the summer, most weekends. Emmie loves it there; she has a pony that we keep in the paddock.”

  “And that you look after?”

  “Oh … well, not exactly—a girl from the village comes every other day to groom and exercise him.”

  This gets worse and worse, thought Toby.

  “Very good. Now … I want to hear about the time your daughter lost the baby. The little boy.”

  “Oh … yes.”

  She looked down, fiddled with the pearls.

  “It must have been a very sad time for you all.”

  “It was, yes.”

  “Did your daughter spend much time with you over that period?”

  “Yes. Yes, she did. She was very low, couldn’t sleep, wasn’t eating. Matthew was very upset too, but of course he had to go back to work and … well …” Her voice faded.

  “Well what, Mrs. Fullerton-Clark?”

  “It is always worse for the mother.”

  “That is your view? That your son-in-law was not as upset by the death of his son as your daughter?”

  “No, that is not my view.” Sarah faced him down. “I said that Matthew was very upset; I simply meant that it is always worse for the mother; she can’t escape into the world of work; she has fewer distractions, and I truly believe we feel such loss more; it’s in our biology.”

  “I see. And … how did Eliza cope with Emmeline at this time? I imagine it must have been difficult for her, a lively—what, three- or four-year-old?”

  “Emmie was five at the time. Yes, my daughter did find it difficult, Emmie’s a demanding little girl and—Yes …” Her voice trailed off.

  “Was she … irritable with the child, that sort of thing?”

  “A … a little, yes.”

  “What form did this irritability take, Mrs. Fullerton-Clark? Did Mrs. Shaw snap at Emmie, that sort of thing?”

  “Er … yes. That sort of thing.”

  “Were you ever worried about her ability to cope with the situation?”

  “A little, I suppose. Yes.”

  “Did you suggest she seek help?”

  “Yes, yes, I did, but she didn’t want to give in, as she put it. I was very glad when she agreed to go and see a … a doctor.”

  “A doctor? Surely it was a psychiatrist she saw?”

  “Well … we agreed together she should seek help. We didn’t actually define what sort of help. It seemed to me at the very least she needed perhaps some sleeping pills. And to—”

  She stopped.

  “And to what, Mrs. Fullerton-Clark?”

  “And to talk to someone. About how she was feeling, how … how wretched she was.”

  “And … was there one particular incident that persuaded her this was necessary? Or did she slowly come round to the idea?”

  Does he know? Eliza wondered.

  “Well … well, she … That is, I—”

  “Mrs. Fullerton-Clark, please answer the question,” said Clifford Rogers. He sounded irritable.

  “Well … she was down one weekend, without Matthew and … and she became very upset …”

  “Why was that, particularly?”

  “Well, Emmie was being very difficult. She … she wanted to go to the village shop and buy some sweets, and Eliza said she couldn’t. Emmie was very angry and started having a tantrum. Shouting at Eliza and so on.”

  “And …”

  “Well … Eliza became very … very distressed.”

  “And …”

  “And she … she, well, she lost her temper with Emmie.”

  “And …”

  “Well, and she … she …”

  “Mrs. Fullerton-Clark, I have to ask you this. Did you ever observe any violence towards Emmie from your daughter?”

  Sarah was silent; she looked at Bruce Hayward and then at the judge and then down at her hands, fiddling with her rings.

  Finally she said, “Yes. Yes, I’m afraid I did. Just … just the once. She … well, she hit her. I wasn’t there, in the room, but I heard screaming and shouting and I went in and Emmie … Emmie was holding her head, which was bleeding—not from the blow; she’d fallen against the table—we had to go to casualty; she needed stitches.”

  Eliza looked at Matt, who was staring at her, sitting bolt upright, his dark eyes brilliant, blazing in his white face.

  She would lose Emmie now, absolutely without doubt. And she would deserve to.

  “Matt,” said Louise, “I’m sure—I’m quite, quite sure—it must have been a one-off thing. Otherwise, Emmie would have been frightened of her. We’ve all done awful things that we’re ashamed of. Haven’t you?”

  “What?”

  “I said, haven’t you ever done anything you were ashamed of?”

  “Oh … yes, yes,
of course I have. But not to a child. Not to my own daughter. And then to lie about it, and obviously to encourage her to lie about it. I just don’t know what to do, Louise; I really don’t.”

  “You don’t have to do anything. That’s the whole point of all this. The judge will do it for you.”

  “And she knew all along, Sarah, that is. I trusted her, you know. And she knew that and she didn’t tell me. Well, she’ll never be alone with Emmie again either.”

  “Matt! Didn’t your mother ever wallop you? I know mine did.”

  “Yes, of course, but that’s quite different.”

  “I don’t see why. Look, Matt, you decided to go down this road, to turn Emmie into an object that you were going to acquire at all costs. I know this is awful for you. It’s awful for everyone. You, Eliza, Emmie, everyone involved, actually, your mother, Scarlett, Sarah—it’s horrible. Of course it is. It didn’t have to be. You chose to do it like this and I’ve backed you all the way. Of course it was bad that Eliza hit Emmie, and of course it was very … unfortunate that she lost her in Milan. But neither of them was as bad as you’ve made out; there are reasons, explanations. Eliza is not a bad person and nor are you, but the barristers and the solicitors and the judge are turning you into bad people, and you can’t blame them either, because that’s their job. So just … just grow up, Matt. I’m going home now; I can’t stand this any longer. You’d better do the same. Remember me to Jimbo.”

  Clifford Rogers spoke. “Mrs. Shaw, please take the stand and try to tell us why you feel Emmeline should remain in your care.”

  She is terrified, Philip thought, looking at Eliza’s eyes as she stood, gripping the edge of the box. She has lost faith in herself and her cause; she does not believe she can win. Which is dangerous—he scribbled a note and passed it to Gilmour.

  There was a long silence; finally Gilmour stood up.

  “Mrs. Shaw,” he said gently, “tell us about Emmie, and why you think she needs you. What would happen to her if she didn’t have you.”

  “Oh. Yes. Well …” She took a deep breath, then started to speak, gaining some frail momentum as she went. “Emmie, like all children, needs security and familiarity. Like all children, she falls apart when faced by change. Her first preoccupation, when my husband and I told her about the divorce, was not which of us she might be going to live with, but whether she would have to have a different house and a different bedroom. She is happy and confident in herself and her life; she has many friends; she is extremely popular. Running her social life alone is quite a full-time job; she’s got a busier diary than I have …”