‘They were my mother’s.’ Now why did she say that? She knew nothing of any jewels!
‘Your mother’s, eh?’ Doctor Taylor smiled broadly and leaned forward to touch her on the shoulder. That was the very first time she had revealed anything of her background. ‘You see… you’re already beginning to remember. It will all come back to you… piece by piece, like just now, or overnight… when your entire past will flood into your mind. Believe me, Hannah, it could happen.’ His voice grew more serious. ‘Or you may never really get total recall. It would have been more satisfactory if all our efforts to trace your identity had thrown up some positive results. They did not. And now there’s little more we can do.’ He sighed, declaring abruptly, ‘But we can help to get you settled… keep an eye on you, so to speak. Do you feel happy about that, Hannah?’
He was calling her by that name again. Well, let him! She would keep her secret. ‘I’ll be fine,’ she told him, adding, with a warm glance at Nurse Dixon who was waiting to take her back, ‘And thank you for all you’ve done.’
‘That’s what we’re here for, my dear.’
‘When can I leave?’ She had been impatient to depart this place for many weeks now. Something told her that she must keep moving. Keep moving. Fool them. Then they would never find her! But who? Who ‘would never find her’? And how would she know those who would harm her, even if she came face to face with them? Icy fingers touched her heart. She shuddered, praying she would always stay one step ahead of her pursuers. She had no real memory, no roots, no past or future. But one thing she did have. And that was a deep murmuring sense of terror!
‘Wait here, my dear. The almoner will see you shortly.’ Nurse Dixon placed a small brown suitcase on the wooden bench, at the same time leaning forward to do up the top button of her patient’s pretty blue dress. ‘I know it’s a lovely day, Hannah… but you’ve spent most of your time indoors. We don’t want you catching a chill now, do we?’ She lifted the fob watch that was pinned to her breast pocket. ‘Goodness! I should be taking Mrs Clayton for her bath.’ She looked down at the bent, dark head and a wave of compassion washed through her. ‘Look after yourself, my dear,’ she said softly, easing her ample posterior onto the seat and laying her podgy hand over the long elegant fingers. She was surprised to feel the other woman’s hand stiffen beneath her touch.
‘I don’t want to see the almoner!’ The black eyes swivelled upwards towards the glass-panelled door opposite.
‘Oh, now Hannah!… She’s here to help you. After all, you need somewhere to stay… perhaps a job? Well… the almoner has many contacts. Trust her.’
‘Thank you for the suitcase.’
‘You’re very welcome. I’ve put your other dress in there… with your hairbrush and toiletries.’ She leaned forward and lowered her voice. ‘I think you were very foolish to insist on cash, my dear. But of course, it is your money. You’ll find it’s all there… together with the jewellery. Be very careful. Guard the case at all times!’ She sighed and drew closer. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t rather deposit the money in the bank?’
‘I’m sure.’ The voice was impatient.
‘Very well, my dear.’ She eased herself up from the bench. ‘I must go, or there’ll be all hell let loose,’ she laughed. It was a pleasant sound. ‘But do take care, Hannah… look after yourself. And don’t forget your appointment with Doctor Taylor in a month’s time. The card is in your coat pocket… see?’ She raised the tweed coat from the bench and dipped into the pocket. Drawing out a small yellow card, she pointed to the date: 20 August 1930. ‘Don’t lose it!’
‘Goodbye, Nurse Dixon… and thank you again.’ The dark gaze bathed the nurse’s face. She smiled in return, but gave no reply. For a moment longer Nurse Dixon studied the other woman’s magnificent eyes, thinking how quiet they seemed. In her experience she had witnessed much sorrow and tragedy; she had seen how cruelly a mind might be twisted and hopelessly deranged. The cases were many: shock, grief, persecution, or something so deeply inherent and cruelly destructive in the mind itself that it could not be recognised or treated. She saw that elusive quality now, in those quiet dark eyes. She knew instinctively that, beneath the quietness, there was so much suffering that even to look on it was to feel it also. In spite of the conscious effort to disguise it, the torture was there, always there, lurking beneath the surface.
‘You mustn’t worry about me. I’ll be fine… really.’ Nurse Dixon’s anxiety had conveyed itself. The dark eyes smiled. The long elegant fingers reached out to enfold the podgy hand. ‘Please go.’
Impulsively, the nurse bent forward to kiss the pale gaunt face. She would have muttered a word of affection, but it stuck fast in her throat. Instead she merely nodded her head and turned away quickly, reminding herself of the fallacy that nurses should never submit to emotion.
The mirror in the washroom was grimy and crisscrossed with fine ancient lines. The dark eyes were strangely distorted, the lovely face split into fragments, like the pieces of a jigsaw. The reflection was not true, but frightening. Unnerving. Still, the dark brooding gaze searched and shifted, intent on finding itself. When it could not, the bitter tears fell, blurring the image even more. ‘SCARLET?… ‘I am Scarlet.’ The voice was like that of a child.
‘Alright, are you, dearie?’ The stranger bustled into the washroom, surprised to find such a strikingly handsome lady actually talking to herself in that awful mirror, and softly crying.
‘Yes… I’m alright.’ Gathering up her suitcase, she quickly departed the washroom and, a few moments later, was out on the street, leaving the almoner puzzled and annoyed as to why the woman known as Hannah should not have attended the appointment made for her. Still, for every ungrateful soul, there were others who would be glad of her help!
‘Who the devil’s that, at this late hour?’ Edward Summers snatched the tumbler of whisky from the housekeeper’s outstretched hand. ‘Send them away!’ he grumbled, incoherently muttering after her as she went on hurried footsteps towards the front door.
‘Yes?’ Ruth Taylor was intrigued to see a tall, dark-haired and exceptionally handsome young man waiting at the door. She was old enough to be his mother. Yet beneath his smiling violet eyes she felt like a young girl again, even softly blushing as she opened the door wider to let the light shine more fully on him. She calculated that he must be the better side of thirty years.
‘My apologies for disturbing you so late in the evening.’ He inclined his head politely.
‘Are you from the police? They’ve already paid us a visit… we know nothing of any murder, I can assure you!’ The smile faded. In its place was a look of irritation.
‘Murder?’ There was shock in his voice. And fear. ‘I’m not from the police. I’m looking for… a friend. She was married to the late Garrett Summers. Scarlet Pengally.’
‘That woman!’ The housekeeper bristled at the name. At once she retreated into the house and would have slammed shut the door if only he had not placed his hand against it. ‘Please.’ His voice trembled. ‘I must find her!’
‘Then search where all of her kind seek refuge… GO TO HELL!’
On her return to the library, Ruth Taylor found her master in a drunken stupor. The sight was not a pleasant one, nor was it unfamiliar. Since the tragic deaths of his son Garrett and the boy several years ago he had gone steadily downhill. To her mind, there was only one creature to blame. SCARLET PENGALLY! A witch without a heart.
‘Who was it?’ Edward Summers lifted heavy eyelids and turned in his wheelchair. ‘Was it the police again?’ His voice was slurred, matter-of-fact.
‘No, no… it wasn’t the police, sir.’ Ruth Taylor came forward, gently taking the empty tumbler from his hand. ‘It was a stranger… come to ask directions.’
‘Oh. Not the police… bloody fools! What do they think we know of mutilated bodies found buried on the moors?’ Suddenly, the tears were running down the wrinkled folds of his face. ‘Wicked!’ he murmured, ‘wicked, wicked!… What
devil would do such a thing?’ He shook his head and closed his eyes, quietly mumbling to himself.
‘Devil indeed,’ agreed the housekeeper, tucking the rug about his knees. The image of Scarlet Pengally rose in her mind. There was a ‘devil’. One who deserved no peace. One who should be tortured till the end of her days… just as this poor old man was being tortured.
The moon was high; its soft glow disturbed by scurrying clouds that created gyrating shadows over the moors. The breeze had whipped up to a spiteful wind that played weird laments in the treetops, and the air struck suddenly chilly. It was a forbidding evening, more reminiscent of winter than July. An evening to match Silas’s mood as he wended his way across the moors towards Dunster, and Greystone House. All this time and endless searching; all in vain. It was as though she had vanished from the face of the earth. Somebody must know where Scarlet had gone! He was now convinced that they were all lying to him. But he would not be beaten.
The unusually cold air clung to him. Shivering, he drew the long black coat tighter about his lithe figure. Bending into the wind he made a grim sight. Scarlet was his! She would not escape him. Not now, when he had made so many sacrifices and achieved all he had set out to do. He would find her. Even if it took him a lifetime and he was made to search every dark corner of the earth!
16
‘Take your grubby hands off my daughter!’ The prim middle-aged woman was horrified to see the vagrant actually offering her small daughter a dubious-looking parcel.
‘It’s only a sandwich,’ protested the down-and-out, a look of pain and confusion in her large dark eyes, ‘But… she’s my daughter, not yours!’ Scarlet gazed at the child in the perambulator. She was a pretty little thing, about two years of age, fair-haired and friendly. She looked like Cassie, yet the eyes were different somehow… vivid blue they were, not dark like those of the child who came alive in Scarlet’s deepest dreams. ‘Her name is Cassie,’ she insisted, ‘my daughter… Cassie.’ She reached down to stroke the fair hair with cold, chapped hands.
At once, the woman sprang forward, striking the paper parcel to the pavement and hurrying the bemused child away. ‘I shall make it my business to inform the first constable I meet!’ she warned. ‘Tramps shouldn’t be allowed amongst decent folk!’ As she made her way along the street, which was already thronging with Christmas shoppers, the woman began to tell all and sundry about the ‘scruffy wild-eyed creature who might have abducted my baby if I hadn’t come out of the shop in time!’
Finding herself the subject of great curiosity and sensing the anger that was quickly brewing, Scarlet stared at the onlookers with scorn. ‘I made a mistake!’ she told them, at the same time moving discreetly away. ‘I thought it was my own little girl… my Cassie. Anybody can make a mistake, can’t they?’ As she hurried away, quickly ramming the sandwiches back into her hessian bag and safely tucking the battered suitcase under her arm, Scarlet felt the crowd’s resentment. She also felt their fear. It made her smile. They were afraid of her. She was wary of them. People were strange. She must never forget that they were not to be trusted!
Caught in the surging push of people, all eager to make their festive purchases before hurrying home to a cheery fireside, Scarlet was not surprised to find herself given a wide berth, her approach even prompting some people to walk over to the other side of the road in order to avoid contact with her. She didn’t mind. It was unnerving to be surrounded by people and, as a rule, she did her best to keep away from the shops and busier area of Weymouth centre. Her favourite haunt was the beach. There she would find a quiet corner where she could sit and watch the incoming waves gently lapping over the sand. There was a timeless quality about the ocean. It soothed her troubled mind, creating in her a unique sense of peace and a deep-rooted belief that she belonged. Somewhere in her past the sea had been a source of contentment to her. She felt that above all else.
In the summer, when she had left the institution, the sea had seemed to call her, and she had gladly spent many hours just sitting and watching from the beach. All through that long sultry summer and the mild winter that followed, she had never wandered far from the comforting roar of the ocean. Her needs were few and her appetite meagre. The small fortune she carried with her was barely disturbed. Money meant nothing to her, though she knew she could not survive without it. The jewels, however, intrigued and fascinated her. Not because of their exceptional beauty, nor because of their obvious value. But because they represented something in the past. They were like a key which might unlock a door that was closed to her.
Time and again, when she felt safe and unobserved, Scarlet had taken the two brooches and matching necklace from the small cord bag in the suitcase and, for long searching moments, she would gaze on the sparkling gems. One of the brooches was of oblong shape, encrusted with a border of diamonds and bearing a large sapphire in the centre; the gold necklace was of matching design. The smaller brooch was of oval shape, made up of gold filigree and overlaid with small emerald clusters. Often, if she stared into them long enough, Scarlet would imagine the stones merging to become a face. A small, quiet face with anxious china-blue eyes. Its name was Hannah. Scarlet knew that instinctively. She knew also that Hannah was her mother. And Hannah was dead. But Cassie, wasn’t dead. WHY? Why would Cassie be sent away? But, of course… she knew why! Because Cassie was in danger. She was in danger also. Someone meant to kill them. Why? WHY? What dreadful thing had she, or little Cassie, ever done that made someone want to kill them? When the persistent questions tormented her, Scarlet would pacify herself with the constant belief that Cassie was safe now. CASSIE. She remembered the golden hair and the sound of laughter. She saw Cassie in every child who passed her on the streets. Little by little the jigsaw pieces were sliding into place. As the emerging picture grew stronger, so did Scarlet’s inexplicable terror. A terror that kept her constantly hiding behind the dirt and rags of a vagabond. A terror that urged her to look continually over her shoulder, and drove her deeper into herself. To those who could not know her, Scarlet was a woman of the streets, unkempt and unclean, someone to be suspicious of and who must be avoided. What they could not even begin to know was that beneath that grime and tattered garments was a young woman of exceptional beauty, a woman living in fear for her very life, haunted beyond endurance and suffering all the more because, while the memory was still sleeping, the horror of her past was very much alive.
Leaving the bright lights and Christmas decorations behind, Scarlet crossed to the promenade, pausing for a moment beside the statue of Queen Victoria. Here Scarlet gathered her thoughts. She was disturbed. That business with the girl had been most distressing. Not for the first time the paralysing fear squeezed her heart. It was always there. So was the loneliness. But the greatest loneliness was in not remembering it all, not seeing the full revealing picture that was always submerged beneath the surface. Sighing, Scarlet tramped across the beach, feeling curiously excited as the fine sand gave way beneath her footsteps, piling up around the imprints of her shoes, like miniature dunes. There was something oddly satisfying about the way a body sank into the shifting sand, when it sucked at you, drawing you in deeper. Suffocating.
Placing the suitcase down, Scarlet draped the hessian bag over it and sat cross-legged beside them, her dark, thoughtful gaze concentrating on the vast stretch of ocean before her. ‘Hannah… my mother.’ Her voice was velvet soft in the cold night air. Hannah. Scarlet knew the face. She had seen it so many times. ‘Cassie… my little girl. Not my little girl!’ There was confusion still. Frustration. Scarlet wondered whether it would always be that way. The thought was unbearable.
‘Scarlet!’ The voice came from behind her. She slewed round, wary, suspicious.
‘What do you want?’ It was her again. At once, Scarlet was on her guard. Her black eyes were hostile.
‘I knew I’d find you here… huddled in a corner and staring out to sea like a lost soul.’ The ragged woman chuckled, her mouth loosely opened and displaying a
line of blackened teeth with wide gaps between. Folding her tall wiry figure she drooped to the sands beside Scarlet. ‘Here… this’ll warm you up.’ She dug into her holey bag and withdrew from it a pork pie, which she thrust at Scarlet. ‘A Christmas present,’ she laughed, winking one bloodshot eye and keeping the other wickedly on Scarlet’s unwelcome expression. ‘An’ it didn’t cost me a single penny!’
‘Where did you get it, then?’ Scarlet knew the woman only briefly. They had first met last Christmas on this very spot. And only twice since then. She was a woman of unpredictable moods, with unattractive appearance and possessed of pale shifty eyes. Scarlet felt uncomfortable. The woman made her nervous. She pushed the pie away.
‘Stole it!… Had to.’ Her eyes bored into Scarlet. ‘It’s either steal… or starve!’ The voice quickened with anger. ‘You don’t steal though. No!… I ain’t never seen you steal.’ She leaned closer, her bad breath fanning Scarlet’s face. ‘Got money, ’ave yer?’ Her gnarled fingers reached out, touching, lingering. Intimate.
‘That’s my business!’ Scarlet recoiled from her touch and began gathering together her belongings.
‘Share an’ share alike… that’s what we should do… folks like us.’ She scrambled to her knees, agitated by Scarlet’s impending departure. ‘Show old Meg what yer got in that there suitcase.’ She made a snatch at it. Scarlet was quicker. The woman fell back into the sand, laughing and crying. ‘Go on then… run off with yer money… see if I care!’ Her voice became a whine. ‘Oh, look ’ere Scarlet… old Meg don’t want much. Yer a bad ’un… keeping it all to yerself!’ As Scarlet hurried away, the obscenities intensified. ‘Piss off then!… Yer money won’t do yer no good! You’ll see. You’ll see!’
Scarlet Page 29
