You'll Never See Me Again

by Lesley Pearse

  It was too hot to sleep well – even with the window open, there was no breeze – the bed was lumpy, the pillow even worse. At eight o’clock she gave up trying to sleep and got up.

  The dining room was bleak, with stained, ancient wallpaper, and had a musty smell. None of the chairs around the large central table matched, and the carpet was threadbare in places. The table was laid for breakfast, and Mabel was just wondering if she should sit down and wait when Mrs Brewer, who she’d met the previous evening, appeared and asked if she wanted porridge.

  In her stained apron, she looked as worn as her guest house. She had straggly, light-brown hair and a very lined but sun-tanned face.

  ‘Just tea, toast and a boiled egg,’ Mabel said.

  ‘No eggs,’ Mrs Brewer said in a tone that suggested Mabel had asked for something exceptional.

  ‘Just toast and tea, then,’ Mabel said.

  She had hoped for a friendly landlady who would gossip, but Mrs Brewer obviously wasn’t interested enough in anyone for such things.

  ‘I don’t like my boarders in the house during the day. Not before five, thank you,’ she said when she brought the tea and toast.

  Needing to stay outside would make it even more difficult for Mabel. But one look at Mrs Brewer’s cold, inhospitable face was enough to know she couldn’t be talked round.

  As Mabel set off from the boarding house, her red hair tucked well under her straw hat and her sunglasses on, she was grateful it was so warm. She could at least buy a newspaper and find a secluded place to sit and while away some of the day reading, during which time she’d hope to come up with a plan of what to do next.

  An hour later, when she’d walked all around Kingsbridge, she was feeling less afraid. She’d walked right past Mrs Porter, the lady she used to housekeep for. Although the woman had looked right at Mabel, there was not even the slightest flicker of recognition.

  She also saw Mildred Connor, a girl she’d been at school with, and although she’d never been a real friend, they’d known each other for at least fifteen years. She didn’t even look twice at Mabel.

  Mabel looked in several shops, but as they all seemed to have the same owners or assistants as when she was last there, she didn’t go in. She was beginning to despair when she noticed one of the thatched cottages down by the Salcombe estuary had tables and chairs in the front garden and a sign offering refreshments.

  Mabel remembered that it had been very dilapidated, and people said the old lady who lived there was feeble-minded. As it now looked smart, the walls white-washed, the thatch repaired, the windows gleaming and the garden bright with flowers, she was certain it had a new owner.

  She was still cautious, though. After all, it could be owned now by a close relative and a native of Kingsbridge.

  It was rather dark in the cottage, and she hesitated in the doorway. There were two small tables and chairs inside.

  ‘Good morning,’ a cheery voice called out, and a beaming, rotund woman wearing a white apron came through from the back of the cottage. ‘What can I get you? Tea, coffee, breakfast or just a toasted tea cake? Would you like to sit out in the sunshine?’

  Mabel smiled. She didn’t know the woman. ‘Tea and a tea cake would be lovely. And I will sit outside. It’s far too nice today to be indoors.’

  She sat with her back to the garden fence, just in case someone she knew came along. There were a few more people about now, but judging by the aimless manner in which they were walking, were probably holidaymakers.

  When the lady came out with a pot of tea and the toasted tea cake, Mabel asked her the best way to get to Hallsands.

  ‘Ooh, whatever do you want to go there for?’ she said. ‘It’s a dreary place, too much sadness. Better to get a boat up to Salcombe.’

  Mabel was pleased the woman didn’t recognize her as a local through her accent.

  ‘What sadness is that?’ she asked.

  ‘The houses swept away by the sea, and that poor girl went with them.’

  Mabel hadn’t expected a mention of her at all. ‘How dreadful. I didn’t know about that,’ she replied, trying to keep her expression very neutral.

  ‘Well, they always thought it were the sea that took ’er, but when her old man was found dead on the beach from being pushed off the cliff a while ago, the police think his ma did for both of ’em.’

  Mabel’s heart began to thump. ‘His mother?’

  The older woman shook her head, as if she couldn’t imagine how anyone could do something so terrible. ‘I haven’t lived here long, so I don’t know these folks, but from what I’ve heard, everyone there knew she was nasty to the girl. Yet she doted on her boy, even when he came home from France doolally from the guns. Never did get better – he was a sad sight, by all accounts. I was living in Salcombe when the girl went missing, but everyone here reckons the ma-in-law pushed her off the cliff in that bad storm. The police couldn’t prove it, as they never found her body. But when her boy went too, they looked a bit closer. His grandfather had not long died, and he left his house to his grandson. There was also some compensation from the ruined house. They said she were an evil, mean woman, and she pushed her boy over the edge so she could have it all and be free of looking after him.’

  Mabel poured her tea, trying hard not to show how shocked she was at this news.

  ‘They found her son’s body, then?’

  ‘Yes, fishermen found him early one morning on the beach. He’d been seen up on the cliff top with his ma the night before. Shocking business. So she were arrested and taken off to Plymouth Jail. They say she’ll hang for certain.’

  Mabel suddenly felt faint. Agnes was a horrible woman, and perhaps she might have wanted her daughter-in-law dead, but she wouldn’t kill Martin, of that she was sure.

  ‘Are you alright?’ the café owner asked. ‘You’ve gone a bit white.’

  ‘I do feel a bit odd. I’d better pay you and go,’ Mabel said quickly.

  ‘I hope it wasn’t me telling you what went on in Hallsands?’

  ‘No, not at all,’ Mabel said and got to her feet. ‘It was fascinating.’

  It was only eleven in the morning, and Mabel knew there was nothing further for her to discover. What she knew now had shaken her to the core, and all she wanted was to go home.

  Mrs Brewer wasn’t pleased to see Mabel back so soon, and even less pleased to find she wasn’t staying another night. But Mabel refused to placate the woman by paying for another night.

  ‘Your house is grubby, the bed was lumpy, and to offer a breakfast of only toast or porridge is appalling,’ she snapped at her. ‘So I’ll be off.’

  Fortunately, there was a train due, and Mabel couldn’t get on it quickly enough.

  As the train chugged through sunlit pastures, Mabel’s feelings were truly mixed. Even though she ought to feel some pleasure that there was nothing now to prevent her marrying Thomas, she couldn’t take any joy in the news. It was shocking to think Martin had either fallen by accident from the cliff top or had taken his own life. And she was certain it was the latter; however he had died, it was surely better than living with shell shock, terrified of sudden noises, unable to communicate with others.

  If it hadn’t been for her disappearance, and Agnes being suspected of sending her to her death, would anyone really believe she had pushed her son over the cliff? Mabel didn’t think so.

  She thought back to her vision of Agnes crying and, as much as she hated her, she knew she couldn’t let her hang for her son’s death. She was the one person who knew how much the woman loved her son; she had watched her spoon-feed him, wash and change him when he was incontinent, and she’d never once complained about it.

  Mabel had no idea what you had to do to stop a miscarriage of justice, but she knew it had to be done quickly, and it was then she decided not to go back to Dorchester. She wanted to go back to Clara, to Thomas too. But she needed to keep this potentially ruinous situation away from them. It wouldn’t help Clara’s career in illustrati
on, or Thomas’s as a lawyer, if they were seen to be associated with this. It could very easily come out, if Mabel had to take a stand in the witness box at Agnes’s trial.

  She would go to Mrs Hardy in Bristol. She would know who to approach to sort this out.

  19

  ‘I can’t let her be hanged for this,’ Mabel sobbed out to Mrs Hardy. ‘That would be a real sin.’

  ‘I agree totally, my dear,’ Joan Hardy said. ‘At least, in as far as you have to admit you ran away that night of the storm. I’m not totally convinced she didn’t push her son off the cliff – looking after him must’ve been exhausting – but whether she did or not, that’s for a judge and jury to decide. If you speak up for her, and say her son was the one person she cared about, then you’ve done the right thing. You can’t do more.’

  Joan had been astounded when she answered the knock on her door and found Mabel there. One look at the fright in her eyes was enough to know this wasn’t a social call, and once she’d got the girl in, given her a cup of tea and then listened to the whole story, so much had fallen into place.

  In the time Mabel had worked at Harley Place, Joan had sometimes wondered why the girl never spoke about her past. She told the brief story about her husband being killed in the Battle of the Somme, and how she’d left Plymouth to start a new life, but there were never any further details about the kind of home they’d had, about other family members, or even the little anecdotes most people shared when they made new friends.

  Joan Hardy’s heart went out to Mabel now she knew the truth. It must have been so difficult for her to always be on her guard, taking care that she never slipped up and revealed her past. Then there was the fear too that she might be caught out one day. Some might say she was a hard-hearted floozy for leaving her shell-shocked husband. But there was no doubt Agnes Wellows drove her to it.

  ‘I told you about my gentleman friend, Percy Holmes?’ Joan said.

  Mabel nodded.

  ‘Well, his closest friend, John Baring, is a lawyer, so I am going to slip over to Percy in a little while and ask him to make an appointment for you to see Mr Baring. I’ve met him on several occasions. He’s a very pleasant, kind-hearted man. He’ll be able to tell you what you have to do.’

  ‘Is it going to cost a lot of money?’ Mabel asked nervously.

  Joan Hardy smiled affectionately. ‘I think it’s quite possible he won’t charge you anything, or just a nominal fee. He only has to find out who is defending Agnes and get in touch with that person and tell him about you.’

  Joan made Mabel some scrambled eggs and toast. While she ate, Mabel told her friend about Thomas, her strange psychic experiences and her relationship with Clara.

  ‘Do you love Thomas?’ Joan asked.

  ‘Yes, but all this is going to do him damage, isn’t it? It’s bad enough me not being of the same social class, but once all this comes out he definitely won’t want to marry me.’

  ‘Not necessarily. He sounds like a good man. But before you start telling him anything, you must first speak to John Baring and find out how much involvement you will have in Agnes’s trial. Maybe you will only have to give a statement about how and when you ran away from Hallsands and your opinion that Agnes would never hurt her son. But I don’t know, Mabel, I know nothing more about the law than what I read in the newspapers.’

  ‘It’s the newspapers I’m scared of,’ Mabel admitted.

  Joan patted Mabel’s cheek. ‘Take it one step at a time. Now you make yourself comfortable here, and I’ll pop over to Percy’s.’

  Percy telephoned John Baring while Joan was with him, told him the gist of the story, and it was agreed that Mabel would go to his offices in Bristol’s Queen Square the following morning at nine thirty.

  Mabel slept fitfully in Joan’s spare room. Joan had cleared out all the junk Mabel remembered, the walls had been papered and painted, and it was now a comfortable, pretty room. There were many improvements in the whole place; the stairs and landing had been decorated in pale blue, and a thick, dark blue carpet had been laid. There were new curtains in the living room too. However, Mabel’s mind was not on the changes here but racing ahead to all the problems she might encounter in the next few weeks. She knew she should at least write to Thomas, but what would she say? He’d been told she’d gone to see a sick old friend. How could she suddenly turn that into being a witness in a murder trial?

  While she knew from experience that problems always seemed insurmountable during the hours of darkness, that knowledge didn’t help. She even imagined herself being sent to prison for abandoning her sick husband.

  She left Harley Place well before nine to walk down to Queen Square. She wore her grey-and-white striped dress and put her hair up in a bun beneath her straw boater, as she thought her wild, curly red hair might give this lawyer the wrong impression of her.

  Joan Hardy had said that Percy was very sympathetic when she explained the story to him, as was John Baring when he was told the bare bones of it.

  ‘Neither man thought you were wicked to run from that awful woman,’ Joan said. ‘They both said you clearly have a big heart to want to help her now. So if those two men feel that way, I’ve no doubt everyone else will too.’

  Mabel wished she could be that confident. It was another warm sunny day, but she seemed unable to notice the pretty gardens full of flowers, attractive window displays in the shops, or even bonny babies in perambulators. All she noticed was the number of limbless or blinded soldiers taking up positions to beg. There were dozens of thin, gaunt-faced children in rags, while so many wealthy people drove past them in their grand carriages without even noticing.

  She was ten minutes early for her appointment, so she sat on a bench in Queen Square in the sunshine. She knew this once-impressive square, close to the docks, had been built for wealthy ship owners, slave traders and merchants in the 1700s. Those same rich people later moved up to new houses in Clifton, like the ones in Harley Place, to escape the terrible stink of the docks. After several years of floundering, a riot during which people were killed and houses destroyed, plus a series of other unfortunate events, it seemed this square with its central gardens was doomed. But fortunately, it had just managed to survive because of its proximity to the business area of Bristol. Today it was still an oasis of greenery, and a source of much-needed calm as Mabel waited for her appointment with the lawyer.

  John Baring was tall, stooped and thin, with a nose like a beak. Even his eyes were like a bird’s – small, dark and bead-like. But despite his unprepossessing appearance, he had a warm smile and a beautiful, sonorous voice.

  ‘Do come in, Mrs Brook,’ he said, ushering her into a very elegant office lined with books. There was a magnificent white marble fireplace, and the walls were covered in dark green paper with a little gold motif. ‘I can take no credit for the office decor,’ he said, perhaps seeing her surprise. ‘I inherited it from a senior partner.’

  ‘It’s rather lovely,’ she said, suddenly feeling completely overawed.

  ‘Now I know the background of your story,’ he said, as if sensing her nervousness. ‘You disappeared from a village in Devon in a storm. Your husband was suffering very badly from shell shock. But I understand your fleeing was due to your overbearing mother-in-law?’

  ‘Yes, she sent me out in the middle of the storm, to the house my husband and I owned, to collect more of our things. It was extremely dangerous. As you may know, the row of houses were all destroyed that night, and it was already nearly pitch dark when she sent me down there. You can have no idea how terrifying it was. The lane was strewn with shingle, and the waves were already smashing on to the road.’ Mabel paused for a moment. ‘She was impossible. Always on at me. Nothing I did was right, and poor Martin didn’t even know me. He just sat in a chair by the fire at his grandfather’s house, and all his mother’s nastiness washed over him. I knew, once my house was gone, I would have to live there in his grandfather’s house, with Agnes. I couldn’t bear the thoug
ht of it. The idea even crossed my mind that she’d insisted I went down there in the hope that I’d be swept away. But I grabbed the last of my things, just as the sea rushed into the house, and it was then I decided I wouldn’t go back. I’d disappear.’

  ‘I can’t say I blame you,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘As I understand it, you ended up in Bristol, working under the indomitable Mrs Hardy? And you called yourself Mabel Brook. Your real name being Betty Wellows. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said.

  ‘Your mistress, Mrs Gladsworthy, died and all the staff at Harley Place were dismissed, but the sister-in-law of your mistress recommended you for a position as housekeeper in Dorchester?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Did you ever seek to go back to Devon and find out if your husband’s health had improved? Did you keep in touch with anyone there?’

  ‘No, sir. I didn’t dare. I was, and still am, happy working for Clara May. My parents were both dead, and I had no other family.’

  ‘So you never knew Agnes Wellows was suspected of killing you?’

  ‘No, it never occurred to me she might be. I thought everyone would think I’d been washed out to sea and drowned.’

  ‘So what prompted you to go back to Devon?’

  Mabel didn’t want to say anything about psychic powers; that might make him think she was strange. ‘I had a very real dream that Agnes was crying. So real, it shook me up. She never cried, except when they first brought Martin home from France, when he was wounded, and then she howled at the hospital. Dreaming about her crying, I felt sure something bad had happened, perhaps that Martin was dead. So I had to find out.’

  ‘And you were told that Agnes was in Plymouth prison, charged with the murder of both you and her son?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Obviously, she didn’t kill me, and however horrible she was to me, I know she wouldn’t kill Martin. I was so distraught, I came to see Mrs Hardy.’

  ‘Well, my dear, today I will ascertain details of the charges against her, and if she has a defence barrister. If so, I will then get in touch with him and tell him that you are very much alive, and that despite not liking Agnes Wellows, you are prepared to give evidence that you do not believe she would kill her son.’