The Widow's Confession

by Sophia Tobin

  They found the clergyman and his guest at breakfast; the meal was hastily abandoned and Mr Hallam asked Mr Steele to attend also. ‘Your medical knowledge may be of use to us,’ he said. Edmund thought it would be ungracious to remind him of the fact that he was on holiday, and noted with interest that there was a lady in their midst – the fine lady he had seen at church.

  ‘She is the painter Solomon mentioned,’ Benedict said in a low voice to Edmund as they left the house. ‘Fine-looking, is she not? But headstrong. Short of forcibly bundling her back to her house we cannot get her to quit the situation.’ He looked as though he would have relished the prospect of putting such a plan into action.

  ‘She seems determined,’ said Theo, who was walking on Edmund’s other side. ‘If she is so wilful that she will not listen to reason then she must take what comes.’

  Walking behind them, Delphine heard everything but said nothing. She had seen the displeasure in the priest’s face at the sight of her. Yet the same impulse which had urged her to follow the servant to the hotel pushed her on. She knew it was dangerous to involve herself in local affairs, to attract attention, when the safest course was to remain anonymous and away from prying eyes. Despite this, the gentlemen’s desire to stop her from going with them intensified her need to continue; it was an instinctive battle.

  The group hurried on, turning the corner and passing downhill, walking under York Gate, a gateway that had once had a portcullis as a defence against raiders from the sea.

  The bay was empty except for gulls; the blue sky and pale sand giving an impression of serenity, with the sea lapping at the shore and barely a cloud in the sky. There were no hovellers or mariners on the pier; the only breaks in its dark silhouette were the capstans, and a few gulls. The strong smell of seaweed, entangled in the legs of the wooden pier, hung in the air, and a dense green line along the beach showed where the outline of the sea had been earlier.

  As soon as they came to the sand Mr Benedict began to walk faster, and as he passed her Delphine saw a kind of desperation on his face – as though he knew that if he did not press on, at speed, he would turn away and not come back. Mr Gorsey came to a halt on the road, as if some invisible barrier had been reached. ‘I will stay here,’ he said. Then, defensively, ‘I did not ask to be part of this business.’

  Mr Benedict hurried along the water’s edge for some way. He reached what Delphine saw as a small mound, then raised his hand to signal to them.

  Mr Steele reached him next. Delphine sensed Mr Hallam come alongside her, then saw that he was offering her his arm.

  ‘If you must see this,’ he said.

  She remembered the flicker of harshness in his eyes when he had caught sight of her.

  ‘I thank you, but I do not need your assistance,’ she said.

  He dropped his arm. ‘Very well.’

  Mr Steele was crouching down beside the girl, so at first Delphine only saw her bare feet and her legs. She was wearing a flowing white gown – an underdress. Mr Steele was examining her; he looked up at them and shook his head. ‘There’s no hope,’ he said, ‘no hope at all. She has been dead several hours at least.’ He stood up and dusted the sand from his trousers, and the girl’s face and torso came into view.

  Delphine could not look away. Her eyes were fixed on the dead child before her, and her heart was beating hard. She forced herself to keep her composure, but she felt suddenly, desperately sick. The girl looked to be in her early teens, but there was nothing of adulthood about her at all; her features still had the softness of childhood, and the tiny number of freckles across the bridge of her nose shone out against the now purplish-white hue of her face. Her hair was long and a pale blonde, and there were pieces of seaweed and shells entangled with the loose curls. She looked as though she was sleeping, but it was a troubled sleep; a slight frown seemed to lie across her beautiful, childish face, and her right arm lay curved above her head, as though she had flung it there. Her dress was saturated with water.

  ‘I can see no mark of violence upon her,’ said Mr Steele. He knelt down again, and raised the body slightly. Delphine wondered at the wiry strength in his arms as he did so. ‘I cannot be sure, of course,’ he said, ‘but it would be logical to think that she has drowned.’

  ‘It seems the sea has carried her in,’ said Mr Hallam. He crouched beside the body, holding one hand up in a gesture of blessing as Mr Steele placed her back down. ‘Bless this child of Yours, O Lord, that she may find eternal rest in You.’ And his voice sank low, as he murmured in Latin.

  Mr Gorsey had, at last, joined them. He had made his way across the sand and now stood a little way from the body, his lower lip trembling. ‘Poor little thing,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I do not recognize her.’

  Delphine flinched at the sound of his voice, and realized that she was standing, staring at the girl and the praying Theo, her arms limply at her sides.

  Mr Steele came towards her. ‘Forgive me,’ he said, wiping his hands free of wet sand, awkwardly, on his coat. ‘I know we have only just met, but you do not look well. Do you think you may faint?’

  ‘I will not faint,’ said Delphine sharply, and he raised his chin and nodded.

  ‘Look here.’ Mr Benedict was staring at the ground a small way from the macabre discovery, trying to keep his gaze averted from the body. ‘Writing,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

  Delphine walked over to him, as did Mr Steele. Hallam had stood up, and was looking down on the girl, his features softened in a kind of mourning protectiveness. He took his coat off, and laid it over the girl’s body.

  Delphine, Benedict and Edmund stood together, looking down, bonded in their mutual incomprehension. Drawn in the sand, in capital letters, was the word: WHITE. Beneath it, in smaller letters, drawn falteringly: White as snow.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I did not understand Mr Benedict. His emotions would emerge suddenly, violently, and were as changeable as the weather on that coast. One moment he would weep for the dead child; the next I would see him watching me with a coldly observant eye. I had no idea why I was the particular subject of his interest, though already I noticed his eyes linger on every woman he passed.

  They put the shell of that poor little girl on a table. The writing on the sand had changed the mood of the group from one of mere sadness: there was an amorphous fear in the room, at least that was what I felt. Was it I alone who thought that a man had snatched her, perhaps violated her, and drowned her? No one said it; I think we all had the desire to turn away and suppress the thought, for surely who would wish to hurt such innocence? Now, I know it was because of that innocence that she died. Her very purity was an invitation to darkness.

  Mr Gorsey quailed at the idea of the girl being taken to the Albion Hotel. He went immediately to the Tartar Frigate, the inn which sat almost on a level with the beach, looking out onto the bay – an inn which often had sandbags at its door in the winter, he informed Delphine conversationally. There he hammered on the door and hallooed up, for he knew the landlord well.

  In the end it was the landlord who picked the girl up from the beach, the water now fully retreated from her, and the sun beginning to dry the wet sand near the tide, so it was turning from a dark brown to that lighter multifaceted golden colour, the colour which, beneath the sun, showed every grain. The innkeeper was a short, broad man with huge, muscular shoulders and arms covered with tattoos that told of a seafaring past, but he lifted the girl so tenderly that emotion caught Delphine unawares; she had to turn away, to hide the tears stinging her eyes. She had not wept for many years and she had no idea, not then, and not later at her fireside, why it had caught her so, that emotion, and blindsided her. Only that, as she tried to gather her composure and harden herself, she saw the painter, Mr Benedict, who had dropped all pretences along with his hat and was wiping tears from his face with his handkerchief.

  As the innkeeper trudged away with the mermaid in his arms, Mr Hallam bent down, picked up the hat, and pres
ented it to Mr Benedict.

  ‘Ah,’ said Mr Benedict, his voice trembling, ‘that is good of you, Hallam. Thank you.’

  The Tartar Frigate was dark inside. There were aged bare boards on the floor and at the bar; the walls were of black flint, and there were thickly varnished wooden benches and booths. It was a place of ancient lineage, Delphine could tell, of nooks and crannies. A place for local lovers, mariners, fighters and conversers: not for tourists. The innkeeper laid the girl down on one long trestle table, still ringed with the remnants of the drinks taken the night before.

  ‘I’ve seen others like her,’ he said, his voice low. ‘Plenty are taken by the sea. But she’s a young ’un. A baby.’ He put his hand out and Delphine saw that, instinctively, he was set to brush the girl’s pale curls from her forehead, as one might do to a sleeping child. But his hand stopped halfway through the action: it froze in mid-air and he drew back, glancing at a woman who had just arrived behind the bar: hard-faced, commanding. Sure enough, he went towards her and placed his hand upon the bar; and the woman laid her hand over his. Delphine was fascinated by the gesture: it seemed to combine protectiveness, strength and ownership, all in one brief movement.

  ‘Gorsey,’ said the woman, in a rich, deep voice. ‘What the bloody hell have you brought to our door?’ Then she caught sight of Theo. ‘Sorry, sir. A good morning to you.’

  Mr Steele sprang into action with an apologetic smile. ‘Madam, please forgive us. May I introduce myself?’

  In moments, they found a mutual respect borne of plain speaking.

  ‘We’re not open for a while yet,’ the woman ended, ‘but get Dr Crisp here, and then take her out.’

  Mr Benedict decided it would be he who would fetch the doctor; he seemed to feel that action was preferable to waiting in the darkness of the inn. He looked so severely distressed that Delphine worried that he might begin to sob or collapse. As he bolted out, she knew that time was moving on, and that Julia would be wondering where she was. If only she had had the foresight to leave a note, or wake her cousin – but how was she to know what would develop?

  Within fifteen minutes Dr Crisp had arrived. He was a fine-looking, if pasty fellow, not more than thirty-five but with an air of respectability which comforted Delphine. Nevertheless, he had purplish bags under his eyes and looked as though he had enjoyed a heavy night. He was still rubbing his eyes when he came to the Tartar Frigate, and at the sight of the body, he did not flinch nor let his eyes dart away; there was no sign of distress. Mr Benedict, who had apparently almost beaten down his door in summoning him, had gone to the bar, where the landlady was pouring him a generous whisky. He drank it then put his hat on, pulling it down so low it was almost over his eyes.

  Crisp sighed. ‘A sad case. I see nothing unusual here, at all. She has gone into the water.’

  ‘Nothing unusual?’ shouted Benedict, from the bar. ‘My God, what a hardened soul you must be.’

  ‘Do you recognize her?’ asked Edmund.

  ‘No,’ said Crisp glumly. ‘She will be reported soon enough, I’m sure. Pretty little thing.’

  Delphine swallowed hard, and looked away. A headache was building behind her eyes, and she suddenly realized she was holding herself in tension, as though she might be struck. Mr Hallam came over to her quietly. ‘You are not well,’ he said, his steady gaze taking in her face. ‘You must allow me to escort you back to your house. You should not have come.’ His voice was icy, but his gaze showed no emotion at all.

  ‘I am quite well,’ she said. ‘I will go home in a moment.’

  He checked his pocket-watch. ‘I must go to Morning Prayer,’ he said. ‘Mr Steele – will you see that this lady is taken back to her house?’

  Edmund came forwards, his face showing his puzzlement at Theo’s abruptness.

  ‘Dr Crisp, it’s good to see you,’ called the landlady, refilling Mr Benedict’s glass as he handed over some money to her. ‘Do you care for a porter?’

  Crisp brightened visibly. ‘Don’t mind if I do, ma’am.’

  ‘On the house, sir,’ she said merrily. ‘But you’d better move things along.’

  Edmund walked Delphine back to Victory Cottage. Mr Gorsey had marched back to the Albion Hotel, with the distinct air of someone who hoped to completely disentangle himself from what he had just seen, whilst they’d left Mr Benedict drinking with Dr Crisp. It had been agreed that the body would be moved to the undertaker’s, and Mr Benedict was insisting that an inquest should be held. Dr Crisp, however, had made it clear that in his mind, the girl had merely wandered into the water and been drowned.

  ‘Well,’ said Edmund, after several moments of silence. ‘What terrible things we have seen this morning.’

  ‘There is no need to deliver me to my doorstep,’ said Delphine. ‘I am quite well, and I promise not to faint in the road.’

  He smiled. ‘I have no doubt of it,’ he said. ‘I am sure you have a stronger stomach than some of the men we have just left behind. But I, leave a lady alone to make her way? It is not possible for me, I am afraid. Besides, you live opposite the parsonage, do you not, where I am staying? I am glad Mr Hallam said some words of blessing over that poor child. I know not why, but sometimes one cannot explain the benefit of such things.’

  ‘You seem to have some expertise in medical matters,’ said Delphine, remembering the careful way in which he had lifted the corpse and examined the body.

  ‘A little,’ he said. ‘I have friends who are doctors in London; I am interested in medical matters, and have been for many years. But my main subject of study recently,’ she noticed a hesitation as he took a breath, ‘has been the mind.’ He gave her a fleeting smile. ‘You could say, the anatomy of melancholy.’

  ‘How fascinating,’ she said.

  ‘It does not help us with this case, however,’ he said. ‘The writing in the sand is peculiar, though the doctor says it could have been written by anyone, perhaps even a child the day before.’

  ‘But the tide would have dissolved it,’ said Delphine.

  ‘I know that,’ said Edmund, ‘and so do you. But Dr Crisp will not listen. I hope that he is right; that the girl died naturally. It is possible that she went to the beach, and a sudden illness took her. You know, as I do, that death often comes swiftly and mysteriously. Perhaps she even wrote it herself.’ He glanced at Delphine and saw the doubt in her eyes. ‘When I asked Crisp if he had considered foul play, he shut me down immediately. It is the beginning of the season,’ he sighed, ‘and they do not wish for even a hint of scandal. Did you see Benedict’s servant? The man who found her?’

  ‘I did,’ she said. ‘But he did not seem guilty, only shocked.’

  ‘Let us hope that is the case.’ Edmund paused. ‘Mrs Beck, I am sorry, I should not speak to you so openly on the basis of an hour’s acquaintance. It is early morning.’ He rubbed one hand across his eyes as they stopped at the gateway to the cottage. ‘I am not thinking clearly. Forgive me. It is the fresh air, perhaps – it acts like a drug on my system.’

  ‘Do not be concerned for me,’ said Delphine. ‘None of us are thinking clearly, and I value plain speaking.’ They bade each other goodbye, and Edmund turned to walk up the driveway to the parsonage.

  ‘Mr Steele?’ said Delphine. He turned back. She wanted to ask about Mr Hallam, and why he had seemed angry with her. Then she realized that their sudden fellowship was illusory, and that such a question would seem ill-mannered. ‘Forgive me,’ she said, ‘I wish you good day.’

  That Sunday morning, Edmund waited in the drawing room for Theo to appear from his study. The clergyman was preparing for the service of Holy Communion with meditation and prayer. They had spoken of the dead girl, and Theo said he would touch upon her in his sermon.

  Edmund was troubled. He found that when he had come to speak to Theo of the girl’s death, he could not talk openly. Though he thought Theo was good, he could not feel it; whatever saintliness was in this boy – for although he knew Theo was in his early thirti
es, he still had the innocence of youth in his face and expression, and Edmund could not help but think of him as a boy – his particular type of goodness pushed Edmund away. His intensity was a barrier, not an opening; every time Edmund thought he knew him a little more, the next morning the same Theo would appear who had opened the front door on that first day: polite, measured, with an acreage of calm. The surface, Edmund thought; the surface went so far. It reminded him of Mrs Quillian’s words about her nephew’s loneliness, but he had no idea how to be a true friend to the clergyman.

  He dared not begin a discussion of religion, and of the questioning he had seen amongst his circles in London. Theo cleaved to the Catholic past of the Church of England; it was clear from his choice of music, the ritual he used in worship and the air of monasticism which Edmund sensed in his words and manner. He had studied at Oriel, the heart of the Oxford Movement, and Edmund wondered whether he might convert to Catholicism. Although he was not anti-Catholic like so many Englishmen, he did not wish to pursue the subject, and he wondered if it was this tendency which so disturbed Mrs Quillian.

  Edmund had long observed that the quiet faith of his parents’ generation – practical, convenient and unobtrusive – had been dissolved, harsh fault lines developing between men of faith and men of science. He was grieved at such division, yet he identified more with the latter than the former, so he supposed his friendship with Theo would have to remain only so deep – at the first strata, the scrubby grass on top of the chalk cliffs.

  The church this Sunday did not seem shrouded in the holy mystery that the priest cherished. It was decked with the yellow and purple of spring flowers, and the sound in the air was that of the polite, genial chatter of those who were preparing to meet socially. Edmund even sensed the thrill of sensation in the air, for the news of the body on the beach had spread. The church was full – all free and paid pews taken. Here and there, he saw heads bow in acknowledgement, gentlemen greet each other, and ladies’ hands play over silk and satin as they smoothed their best Sunday dresses. He took his seat at the front, alongside Mrs Quillian, and looked around, trying to pick out who was local and who was not, and hopeful that he would see Mrs Beck again.