by Laura Powell
‘Why not move into Mr Gallagher’s old room? No sense in leaving it empty.’
Betty opens her bedroom door, just as Sam appears on the landing with a brown leather suitcase. He lugs it across to Gallagher’s bedroom.
As Sam pauses to catch his breath, he notices Betty staring at him and he smiles. She frowns back; Gallagher will return soon and he will be angry to find his bedroom taken over. Sam’s smile fades. Betty shuts herself inside her bedroom again. She hates Sam for stealing that room and hates Mother for letting him, but most of all she hates Miss Hollinghurst for being in the woods at all and for making her carry around all she knows. The knowledge makes her so heavy; the words have buried themselves into her skull, weighing it down, making her whole body droop and flag.
Three times in these last few days, Betty has lugged her body out of this bedroom, hulked it down the stairs and put her hand on the front door handle, planning to step out into the street and make her way to Inspector Napier’s house. She would knock on his door and there, on his doorstep, she would tell him exactly who she saw in the woods with Miss Hollinghurst the night she died. She would feel light again, she would have done the right thing. But each time she presses down on the door handle, something makes her glance sideways at the coat pegs; the pegs where Gallagher’s hat and coat hung during the seventy-four days he lived at Hotel Eden.
His words fill her head next, dragging her down further, rattling around her skull, pinging between her ears. I’d be dead one way or another. Men have hung for less. And then her own: I promise. I’ll never tell another soul. Instinctively, she clutches her neck.
Even when she pulls herself back upstairs and locks herself in her bedroom, the words still fill up her brain. Maybe if she has one more nap, she will wake up and know what to do.
Betty heaves in a deep breath and is gathering the energy to climb into bed when the bedroom door opens.
‘You’ll go grey if you don’t get out of this bedroom,’ says Mother, glaring at her over an armful of clean laundry. ‘And then what boy will look at you?’
Betty starts to cry. Mother shakes her head and looks disappointed.
‘You need to try harder, Betty. Lord knows I try to help us. Do you want to find yourself dried up and alone like me?’
‘You’re not alone,’ she says, but Mother has already swept off.
Later that night, when Mother is in the bathroom rubbing cold cream into her cheeks, Betty shuts the bedroom door, kneels by the bed and prays to God. She has never done that before, except in church when someone else speaks the words and all she must do is parrot amen.
‘Please God, let me have a bit of peace,’ she whispers.
A door handle rattles somewhere in the hotel and she drops her hands; if Mother sees her praying she will know something is wrong. But the rattle seems to be coming from the far end of the landing so Betty takes up her prayer position again.
‘Just one moment of peace in my head, God. If you’d empty it for a minute then I might be able to work out a way of telling Inspector Napier what I saw and still keeping Mr Gallagher safe…’
She stops. God will know about Gallagher – God will know what they did.
‘I know I don’t deserve help,’ she continues. ‘But sometimes I think my head will explode over the walls… Then I’ll have to clean that up too. That sounds stupid but it’s so full, it hurts. Please will you empty it, just for one day or even one minute?’
It is easier to speak to God than she realised. The toilet flushes and a pipe creaks but Betty doesn’t care. She prays on.
‘There are so many faces in my head, God, it’s as if they’re haunting me. I don’t want to see them any more but they never leave me from the second I wake up. Sometimes they come in my sleep too. I can see Mr Forbes on his knees, shouting after me. I can see Mr Gallagher watching me from the breakfast table. I can even smell his cigarettes.’
God will know that she smoked too.
‘And Miss Hollinghurst. That’s why I haven’t been to church since. I can’t stand it, Father. I want to tell someone that I saw her, and that I saw… him. And that he was kissing her. But I don’t understand why you would kiss someone and then kill them.’
She gulps.
‘Or why you would kiss someone and then leave them. Do you?’ She takes another deep breath. ‘Of course you do, you know everything. Maybe you’re punishing me by giving me this knowledge. Yes, you’re probably testing me and wondering what I’ll do with it. But what if I told someone and the whole village turned on him, just as they turned on Mr Forbes? And then what if I’d got it all wrong and it was some other man altogether? After all, I didn’t see his face, just his hat and suit?’
She lowers her voice.
‘Please God. Clear my head, tell me what to do and help me keep Mr Gallagher safe. I need to help Mr Forbes somehow but I can’t risk telling anyone in case Mr Gallagher…’ she can’t say the word hangs aloud, ‘…ends up dead, like he said he would. But I can’t let a killer walk around either. I don’t know what to do next – I can’t work it out by myself.’
The door handle lowers. Betty opens her eyes and pretends to tuck in a loose sheet as Mother walks in.
Mother falls asleep quickly, her snores come thick and fast, but three hours later Betty is still awake. Her pillow is biscuit hard, and damp with sweat. At two, she creeps out of bed, down the stairs and through the empty rooms, her head still overflowing. She needs to contain herself somehow, so she shuts herself in the larder.
In the dark, she can see Gallagher’s lips as clearly as when he lay by the pond. He fades and the image is replaced with the beach during the dance. She can see the raven-haired girl screaming on the dance floor and the ivory figure on the beach, the sand around her bled crimson. She can see Miss Hollinghurst being kissed roughly, and Mr Forbes wearing his pyjamas in the street, clutching that shoulder of cow studded with bluebottles. The picture changes to Gallagher again. He is clinging to her ankles and sobbing; his hat is drenched with blood and a thick red burn mark – as if from a dry rope – encircles his neck. Betty claws her fingers into her cheeks and screws up her eyes and shouts.
‘YOU DIDN’T TELL ME WHAT TO DO, GOD! YOU’RE NOT REALLY THERE, ARE YOU?’
It hits her. Gallagher will know what to do; she must find a way of reaching him.
* * *
The next morning, when Mother is making the breakfasts, Betty locks herself inside their bedroom to write the letter. Rain lashes the windows and wind growls, shaking the hotel’s bones. The mirror above the dressing table rocks slightly and Betty catches a glimpse of herself; her eyes are purple and puffy, and her hair is matted with grease. She looks down at the paper instead.
Dear Mr Gallagher, it says.
She presses the nib into the page and, though her hands shake, she forces herself to continue.
I desperately need your help. Mr Forbes is about to be sent to prison or, worse, the noose, and I’m the only person who can help him. I told you before that I suspected he was innocent, but I now know he absolutely is because I saw Miss Hollinghurst by the pond just after you left, the same afternoon she was killed there. She was with the man I believe is the real killer. You might remember him –
She writes faster, blotting the paper with tears and ink. Then she pushes it into an envelope and writes his name and address – the one printed inside the newspaper – on the front:
Mr John Gallagher, News Department, Daily Telegraph Offices, Fleet Street, London.
She unlocks the bedroom door and runs to the postbox at the end of Newl Grove. It is the first time she has left the hotel in days and she is slapped awake by the wind and wet autumn air. She kisses the envelope, not caring if anyone sees her, and posts it.
There is a strange sinking feeling as she walks home in the rain but at least her head is clearer. Gallagher will tell her what to do. All she must do is wait and hope, and pray that no more girls are found in the meantime.
That night she sleeps ea
sily for the first time since he left her. It is still dark when Mother nudges her awake. Betty can just make out her flat curls and red eyes. She looks as though she has cried all night.
‘A cup of tea, my darling?’ she says in a hoarse voice.
‘What’s happened? What’s wrong?’ says Betty, sitting up.
‘I just wanted to make my girl a cup of tea.’
‘But it’s the middle of the night.’
‘He doesn’t want me.’
‘Who doesn’t want you? Did you go somewhere last night?’
Mother clasps her hands and presses them to her heart, as if to hold it together. She crawls into bed and wraps Betty in a stifling hug, the way she did when Betty was small. Her hair is appley with cider and her chest wheezes.
‘Tell me what’s the matter,’ whispers Betty.
‘What would I do without you, my boo boo?’
Betty wants to ask Mother where she has been, who has upset her and who doesn’t want her, but she forces herself not to. It might trigger another bad spell. They are cycling too quickly these days.
‘You won’t have to do anything without me,’ she whispers. ‘Because I’ll always be here for you, whatever happens.’
Mother nods like a small child. Then she is asleep while Betty lies awake, staring at the ceiling and counting down the hours until Gallagher will help – until she will see him again.
One week passes and Betty hears nothing from him. She doesn’t leave Hotel Eden once, though St Steele seems safer now that the killer is unmasked in her mind. She sits by the bedroom window and looks out for him. Every few minutes, she sneaks a glance at the road that cuts into the village over the brow of the hill, half expecting to see Gallagher’s topless car steaming over it, but each time the road is empty and her chest sinks.
The breakfast cutlery clatters downstairs and the men chatter away. Finally, the front door opens and they all trickle out for the day. When the door shuts again, Betty creeps downstairs. Mother is washing dishes at the sink and singing. Betty grabs the newspapers from the breakfast tables and tiptoes back upstairs. She leafs through them all, tearing out stories with the word Cornish Cleaver in the headline and trawling for Gallagher’s name. It hasn’t appeared since he left; a different man writes about the Cornish Cleaver for the Daily Telegraph now. His name is Charles Entwistle. Betty hates him.
She tucks the cuttings inside an orange folder and is sliding it back into her hiding place under the bed when there is a knock at the bedroom door.
‘I’m busy.’
‘Only me,’ says Mary nervously, pushing open the door. ‘Your mother let me in.’
Betty pulls Mother’s bed jacket around her, flustered to have been caught in her nightdress.
‘What’s that smell? Are you ill?’ says Mary, pursing her lips and looking around. ‘You really should open a window.’
‘What do you want?’
There is a long pause and when she looks up, Mary is crying prim ladylike tears. She walks around the bed and holds Betty in a wooden hug. Mary smells of lavender. It matches her lavender skirt suit. None of it is quite right, as though Mary is wearing her aunt’s clothes and play-acting a role.
‘What’s the matter, Mary?’ she says. Even her voice sounds exhausted.
‘I don’t know how to tell you this. You’ll hate me. Promise you won’t hate me.’
Mary plants herself on the edge of the bed, dabbing her eyes with a small lilac handkerchief.
‘It’s just that… I should have said something sooner but you haven’t made it easy for me because you haven’t been out with us so—’
‘Spit it out,’ says Betty, more gruffly than she intended.
‘Have you lost your manners as well as your hygiene these last few months since I saw you?’
‘I saw you just the other week,’ says Betty, confused. ‘At the dance.’
Mary frowns.
‘That was two months ago. What’s wrong with you? Anyway, it’s George and I,’ continues Mary. ‘We’re in love.’
She shrugs in a nonchalant way but she looks at Betty expectantly. Betty stares back aghast.
‘But you can’t,’ splutters Betty. She thinks for a moment. ‘What about Gray?’
‘He’s moving to Devon,’ says Mary with a coy smile.
‘You can’t,’ she repeats.
‘George said you’d mind terribly but I didn’t think so. Because you told me you didn’t like him. And you haven’t been out with us all for ages. So you haven’t any right to mind.’
‘Don’t,’ says Betty, filled with panic.
She reaches out and holds Mary’s arms gently. Mary widens her glassy blue eyes and tosses her curls over one shoulder.
‘Get your jealous hands off me,’ she says tartly. ‘I’m in love. You can’t help who you fall in love with. And you, Betty Broadbent, don’t get dibs on every boy in Cornwall.’
‘I don’t want him. I just – promise me you won’t go anywhere on your own with him or to his home. Please!’
‘Don’t be jealous.’
‘I’m not jealous. Just don’t pick George. You have to trust me.’
‘You are jealous. I knew it,’ squeals Mary.
She steams on while Betty’s panic thickens. She would like to tell Mary everything but she can’t; she can’t tell anyone until she has spoken to Gallagher. Hanged: the word replays over and over, cutting over Mary’s voice and tangling itself up with her own words. She can’t risk saying anything more in case that slips out too.
‘I can’t help it if he thinks I’m prettier than you,’ Mary is saying. ‘And I’m not dumping you as a friend because you’re not even there to dump. You’re never around.’
‘Mary, you can’t… He… I – You’re right. I still like George!’
‘I thought as much,’ says Mary and her smile widens. ‘But he likes me now. And if you make me choose between you both – George said you’d do that – then it’s no contest.’
‘But it’s not safe.’
Mary glares at her.
‘It’s probably spending so much time with your mother that’s making you so weird.’
‘It’s dangerous, please trust me. Just stay away from him until the killer’s been caught. We shouldn’t be going out at all… Just stay away from St Steele until then.’
‘Like I said, I choose George. I love him and if you can’t accept it, you can lump it.’
‘I wish I could tell you the truth… I will, but I can’t yet.’
‘The only truth is, I’d rather one George Paxon than one hundred friends like you.’
Mary lets out an exhilarated little sigh and slams the bedroom door behind her. Betty flops onto the bed and covers her face with a pillow. Minutes later the door opens again. Mother appears, her face red and eyes bulging.
‘Why must you spoil everything?’ she seethes. ‘For weeks I’ve been running the whole bloody hotel on my own while you do God knows what. And now this.’
‘What?’
‘I did everything I could to fix you up with that boy, even invited his godawful mother to supper. They would have been our ticket out of this… this life.’
‘I didn’t like him anyway,’ says Betty in a small voice.
‘Didn’t like him?’ sneers Mother. ‘Like him? I swear Betty, my hand is itching.’
She raises it and makes to hit Betty’s face but, instead, she smacks the dressing table and marches out of the bedroom.
Hotel Eden shrinks around Betty. The walls slide inwards and she has to beat them to keep them at bay. Eventually, she can stand it no longer. When Mother is in the larder, she slips out of the open back door and runs to the clearing. Ribbons of police tape flap about in the breeze. She is careful not to look at the bit of scrubby grass where Miss Hollinghurst was stabbed. More than twenty times, wrote Charles Entwistle.
She looks for the blue handkerchief that Gallagher gave her that last afternoon they spent together – she must have dropped it somewhere around here – bu
t after an hour of crawling around on her knees, she still can’t find it. She sits under the willow tree waiting for the buzzard. When that doesn’t come either, she closes her eyes and prays again – but this time to Gallagher.
‘Help me,’ she pleads. ‘You said you’d look after me, so where are you? I can’t wait much longer. What if another girl is killed? What if it’s Mary this time? What if it all slips out and I end up telling someone what I saw, putting you in danger? Why won’t you come back?’
The sky is inky with twilight when she makes her way out of the clearing and marches to the Lamb and Flagg at the far side of St Steele. She has never seen the inside of a public house before, but she marches inside and squints through the cigarette smog until she sees Inspector Napier.
He is standing in the corner with another police inspector whom she vaguely recognises. They are talking to two scruffily dressed men. A uniformed policeman ambles over to them and cracks a joke, waving his hand in the air to illustrate something. When he says the word ‘ghost’, the others all collapse laughing. Betty walks to their table, ignoring the funny looks from the other men. She opens her mouth but she isn’t sure how to interject. Inspector Napier notices her first.
‘Betty,’ he slurs. ‘What a surprise.’
‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ she says breathlessly.
‘This isn’t the place for young ladies,’ sneers the other inspector.
‘I wanted a word with Inspector Napier,’ she stammers, not knowing how to siphon him away from the others.
‘And here I am,’ he says, raising his glass.
‘I wanted to speak to you about the murders,’ she says.
‘Yes, yes, one bit of evidence short of an arrest,’ says Inspector Napier in a tired way, shaking his head. ‘Otherwise that animal Forbes would be behind bars right now. You’re about the twentieth person to have asked me that today.’
