Miss Boston and Miss Hargreaves

by Rachel Malik

  The change from yesterday was the smattering of dinghies and little rowing boats, and this added to the sense that the town was coming to terms with its liquid state. Some of these boats were already working as taxis and delivery vans; a number were assembled by the taxi sign, just opposite the hotel. A trip up to the market square cost tuppence, a return trip threepence; rates were negotiable, but there was little of the usual chat. Instead, there was the occasional, soothing sound of one boat lightly knocking against another.

  Elsie and Margaret stood by the window, watching, fascinated. The water looked so dark, yet how it gleamed, changing as you looked. Even through the glass of the window, they could hear it lapping, soft and insistent, some way below. After a time, they spotted a slightly bigger boat; the oarsman rowed smoothly past the houses, skirted the taxi rank and turned across towards the entrance of the Eagle. As he got close to the hotel, the hotel porter in his battered green suit and gumboots appeared out of nowhere to catch the rope. Boat temporarily secured, the porter hailed them cheerfully from the window.

  ‘Oh well,’ said Margaret, but it might as well have been oh dear. She was nervous of the boat, just as she was nervous of all this water. But there was nothing to be done about it and she followed Elsie through the heavy door towards it. Elsie paused only for the briefest moment on the top step – still a good six inches clear of the water. Then she stepped, decisively, into the deep water and sprang, surprisingly lightly, into the boat. Without a pause, she stepped carefully down to the prow and sat down, looking straight in front of her.

  Margaret hovered on the top step, unwilling to exchange one element for another, despite the gumboots which the hotel had found her. Finally she took the plunge, looking down at the water and reaching her hand out blindly to the boatman at the same moment. She didn’t lose her footing in the water as she had feared, but as she stepped on to the boat, she wobbled a little before she managed to sit down. ‘Easy does it,’ the boatman said, and Margaret sat down rigidly, determined not to move till they reached the courthouse.

  The boatman took up the oars and soon he was rowing slowly up the street – the same street that Elsie had gazed up the morning before. Then it had been misty and luminous in the lamp light; this morning it was clear. Elsie sat still at the prow, looking ahead, her hands wrapped in her coat. She had been very quiet since the episode with the newspapers yesterday. Margaret certainly thought the newspapers were to blame and Elsie had avoided them this morning, but she didn’t want to ask. Besides, it wouldn’t be surprising if Elsie was worried about her visit to the court – Margaret certainly was.

  The boat slid gently through the water with just the occasional bump of the oars on the street below. The houses looked taller and more imposing from the boat, and gloomy, unmarked by pavement and kerb, the dark water lapping just below the ground-floor windows – the levels were higher here. And through one ground-floor window, Margaret glimpsed a whole room badly flooded, could just make out a little table topped with ghostly lace floating in the centre of the room. It made her shiver. They passed a set of traffic lights without seeing any other transport and made their turn towards the centre of the town. It was still very quiet and Margaret wondered where all the people were. Had they abandoned their houses, or were they somewhere inside, trying to battle the water with sandbags or dragging furniture upstairs to protect it from the flood?

  They saw just one person: a tall, elderly man taking short, splashy strides through the water – almost as if he were trying to march. He wore a green tweed jacket over a pair of braced green rubber waders. He had a matching tweed hunting cap and carried a rifle – not casually slung, but cocked and at the ready. For a little while he paced himself with the boat, walking alongside them. Boatman and man in green nodded to one another, and the man in green raised his cap to the ladies but said nothing.

  ‘Not planning to shoot the fish?’ asked the boatman, smiling.

  ‘It’s not the fish,’ the man replied, looking very serious, ‘it’s the rats. They’re everywhere.’

  Margaret saw Elsie start at this. It was the only movement she made. She sat quite still at the prow of the little boat, oblivious, it seemed, to the strange world that lapped around her.

  They were travelling up the high street now, where the awnings of shops drooped forlornly below the flowing italics of Bluston’s Gowns and Morley’s Hardware and Teague’s Quality Grocers. The big glass window of the gown shop looked like an abandoned fish tank, with odd shoes lying at strange angles on the floor.

  They passed the cinema, battened down rather pointlessly with sandbags, and the All Day Coffee Bar, which had fared better than some, with its stools and red tables stuck to the floor. Up ahead in the market square, trestle tables had been weighed down with chains and sandbags and improvised into a series of rickety paths for those who dared. One of these led to the bus station at the bottom of Antoch’s Hill – the route to the new shops at the top of the town; another led from the entrance of the Lamb Hotel (where most of the jurors were staying) up to the court. Planks and crates created further paths or bridges. It was a good deal busier here, and there were a few boats too, plying their trade across the market square and up to the council offices and the court.

  Margaret knew they’d arrived when she saw the tall iron railings rising in front of her. She looked up at the great stone building and saw the bright statues, staring blankly, bearing down. The boatman rowed through the gateway into the courtyard, aiming for a pair of large trestle tables – this had become the official landing platform for anyone arriving by boat. A wide plank bridged the twenty feet or so from the landing platform to the top of the courtroom steps. It was supported by all manner of odd bits of furniture, some of it on loan from the market, the rest raided from the court buildings: document chests, desks and the like. A group of new arrivals was making its way along the bridge: one by one, and very slowly and carefully they went (the plank was wide and solid enough, but some of its moorings looked a little flimsy); there was a man in waders on hand to walk the more nervous along the ‘bridge’. Margaret was glad to see him. She watched as one by one they reached the steps and solid ground.

  And there at the top of the steps was the hard, blonde-haired woman that Margaret had seen in the hotel dining room on the first night. She was watching them intently as they made their approach to the landing platform. Or rather, she was looking at Elsie, motionless in the prow of the boat, her coat draped around her, staring at the watery world about her like one of those blind statues perched in the building above. The blonde woman kept looking, making no attempt to disguise her interest.

  Elsie woke from her trance and made a deft job of getting out of the boat and on to the platform – it was a big step up – then she walked along the planking with confidence. Margaret followed cautiously in her wake, wondering at this physical ease that was so out of place with her usual diffident manner. And all the while the blonde woman was watching Elsie quite openly, even as they drew close, then she pulled out a notebook from her coat, wrote something down quickly, turned and went inside. Margaret knew who she was now, one of those reporters who had written so spitefully in yesterday’s papers.

  It was busy when they got into the lobby, and the peculiarities of some of the wet-weather wear on show saved Elsie from immediate attention. The flooding had made any manner of outdoor get-up permissible, and parts of the lobby looked more like the deck of a trawler than the anteroom of justice. But there was a deal of good humour and no one seemed to mind. It appeared you could arrive in anything. But you were expected to revert promptly to ordinary (smart) clothes immediately after, and that was the rub. Margaret took off her coat, slipped out of the boots with relief and put on her smart shoes. Then she joined the queue to the cloakroom counter. She looked around and was glad there was no sign of the blonde-haired reporter. Elsie stood patiently behind Margaret; there was a little ordeal when the girl at the counter asked for Elsie’s coat but she flatly refused to take off
either this or her big boots. As they climbed the curving, marble staircase, Elsie ahead now, Margaret was sure she could feel the looks from some of the people below. The waiting room was empty, with one exception: Major Veesey. He spied Elsie immediately and nodded his pleasure at seeing her, but it wasn’t the time to speak to her, he knew. He was glad to see she had a friend with her.

  In the courtroom the panelling and pews still exuded that top-coat of church. Most of the congregation was back too, sitting in the same place. Rene picked out the usher with the shiny brow, the sharp-eyed young man in the jury stand; there was the woman in the green silk hat. They looked straight at each other – it was a kind of greeting.

  An attentive observer would have noticed that Miss Hargreaves seemed a little nervy or excitable; someone might have noticed how carefully her hair was combed, how neatly turned the pullover, her fingers tapping on the dock. For Rene was excited. Today, she would see Elsie. Elsie was probably already here, waiting somewhere in the building. She did hope she wasn’t too nervous. Yes, she would see Elsie. No wonder the rain had stopped.

  But before she could see Elsie came news, and the news concerned Leo. He had arrived a day early, but now, just when he was needed, he’d disappeared, vanished into thin air. Solicitor Thomas Walker was disappointed. It was a pity that the brother wasn’t here, he might have made a point of comparison. Did they look alike? he wondered, turning his eyes on Rene, unable to make up his mind – how did she look exactly? After a bit of a delay and a deal of paper shuffling, Leo’s statement was read aloud to the court. It contained a lively report of how Elsie had sent him packing from Occanby, which came as news to Rene. There was also a lurid account of a Christmas card in which Rene had complained bitterly about Ernest. This sat oddly with his finale.

  … I know that many people find my sister strange and she can sometimes seem hard-hearted, but she is the kindest person you could ever hope to meet. She has helped many people in her life, she’s always thinking about other people. I wonder sometimes if she hasn’t been taken advantage of over the years.

  Rene was unsettled by his words, spoken by a silver-haired matron with a soothing wireless voice – a clerk of the court – but they sounded like Leo all right, he had always liked colouring things up.

  After the non-appearance of Leo, it was the turn of Margaret Cuff.

  ‘Call Mrs Margaret Cuff.’

  Dressed in a royal-blue coat and matching hat, she bobbed at the judge as if he were the Queen. Not quite the friend he might have expected, Walker thought. Still, she was pretty, with the pinky-white colouring he particularly admired.

  ‘Mrs Cuff, you are well acquainted with the accused and I understand you have employed her at your post-office shop on a regular basis?’

  ‘Oh yes, she is my good friend.’

  ‘Mrs Cuff, did it surprise you when Miss Hargreaves arrived that morning and told you that Mr Massey had died?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Why? Could you explain?’

  ‘He was old. They’d had the doctor out to see him a good few times through the winter. His chest. And everyone calling it a mild winter. Mind you, I don’t think he got enough fresh air – Miss Hargreaves said she just couldn’t tempt him out.’

  ‘I see. So you weren’t surprised.’

  ‘No.’ Mrs Cuff sounded very cheerful. ‘Well, it wasn’t out of the blue.’

  ‘Miss Hargreaves said that?’

  A pause.

  ‘Oh no. I think that was me.’

  ‘You’re not sure?’

  Another pause.

  ‘It could have been Miss Hargreaves. It’s the kind of thing you say, isn’t it?’

  ‘Is it?’

  If Quillet was enjoying himself, he gave no sign; his manner remained mild and polite throughout.

  ‘Mrs Cuff, if we could return to the morning in question, is there nothing else you can remember?’

  ‘Sorry. Oh yes, the snow. Miss Hargreaves was hoping the snow wouldn’t come till the evening, because the road might get blocked – I think she was a bit worried for the doctor.’

  ‘Did she mention Miss Boston at any point?’

  ‘She said she wanted to get back as quick as possible because she didn’t want Elsie, Miss Boston, to deal with the doctor on her own. I offered her a cup of tea. We always had a cup of tea when we’d finished, but she said she’d better not stay.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can you recall at exactly what time Miss Hargreaves arrived at the post office that morning?’

  Mrs Cuff was confident about this.

  ‘Quarter past six.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘She was always there by quarter past six. The delivery came at half past. They’d always phone from Helston if they were going to be late.’

  ‘Do you remember looking at your watch or at the post-office clock?’

  Mrs Cuff didn’t follow.

  ‘Is there anyone else who can confirm the time? Was there anyone else in the house that morning?’

  ‘My daughter, Belinda, but she was asleep.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Cuff. That will be all.’

  Mrs Cuff seemed surprised that there were no more questions and a little uncertain as she came down from the witness box; she gave a quick, smiling nod to the judge and another to Miss Hargreaves.

  * * *

  ‘Call Miss Elsie Boston.’

  The court used the short intervals between witnesses to rearrange themselves in the narrow seats, a little inconspicuous stretching, a few faint murmurs but nothing that really amounted to speech. But now, as the gap lengthened, both public and press became restive. There had already been one disruption this morning. A number of people cast surreptitious glances in Rene’s direction, but she stood as before, looking out across the court.

  ‘Call Miss Elsie Boston,’ the usher said again.

  There was a further delay and then Walker heard the sound of footsteps in the marble corridor outside. The heavy footsteps grew louder, then they stopped. The courtroom was completely quiet now, waiting for the proverbial pin. Walker heard the door being opened and felt the attention of the courtroom begin to focus behind him. Unable to turn around and look himself, he saw some of the jurors make brief, guarded glances in the direction of the door. Everyone who looked, looked away then looked again.

  She remained poised on the threshold for some moments, looking blindly across the court, oblivious to the usher, who tried to coax her forward. A current of cool, damp air followed her through the open door. Perhaps she became aware of the attention, because quite suddenly she dropped her head and started looking at her hands. The usher coughed politely but to no effect. Her hands had her attention now. They were clasped together and she was looking at them as if she expected to find something there. But she looked so deep, as if her hands were not quite her own. Like she had lost a coin in a well, thought Colin Mackenzie.

  ‘Miss Boston,’ the usher said quietly, almost confidentially.

  She looked up then and seemed to see him for the first time. She took a step forward and stopped. Then, as if bracing herself, she stood up tall, fixed her eyes on the witness box and began a somewhat clumsy progress across the court towards it. She cut quite an extraordinary figure as she pressed through the court in her greatcoat and big boots. And her fixed stare gave everyone the chance of a better look. Walker registered the tightly buttoned greatcoat and the tightly bunned hair. The hair was scraped unflatteringly tight across her head. There was something pleasing about her face, he forced himself to admit, her features were good and she looked younger than her years. Yet her looks bothered him far more than Miss Hargreaves’s. She didn’t walk quickly but she strode out, almost as if she were still outside in all that water. Her eyes never wavered from the witness box. She looked neither to right nor left and certainly not at the thin, short-haired figure in the other box. Inevitably, perhaps, there was a price to pay, and she knocked a big pile of
papers off the prosecution table. She didn’t register this minor catastrophe, or the little hum set off by it – sharply curtailed when the judge sent a clerk scurrying to help. She never looked back and finally climbed into the box. As the crow flies, young Mackenzie wrote, in his tidy shorthand.

  Asked to swear her oath, her voice rang out surprisingly clear and strong: ‘I swear by Almighty God that the evidence I shall give will be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God.’

  Like her friend and companion of so many years, she sounded foreign, but it wasn’t clear the two of them came from the same place. Walker stole a quick glance at Miss Hargreaves, who was steadfastly looking straight ahead. It was difficult to know exactly what fell in her line of vision.

  Walker didn’t see the tips of Miss Hargreaves’s fingers tapping lightly on the edge of the dock. Whether this signalled an impatience with court proceedings or the declaration of a different rhythm, it was impossible to say. Walker and Mackenzie, solicitor and journalist, both missed a look that passed between Miss Boston and Miss Hargreaves soon after Miss Boston had entered the chamber. In the right-hand pocket of Miss Boston’s tightly buttoned coat was the letter she had been sent from Holloway. She had kept this letter about her since she received it, some nine weeks ago.

  Patrick Clifford, whose cold was improving, kept his questions to particulars where he could; he judged this would make things easier for Miss Boston. She managed quite well at first: she could explain the routine of her days with Mr Massey and how she fitted in her duties to him (as she called them) with her other work. She was extremely clear about the division of tasks between herself and Miss Hargreaves. Miss Hargreaves laid the table. She fed the animals. She was also in charge of housekeeping. Miss Hargreaves shopped; both women cooked. These divisions also extended to the care of Mr Massey. Miss Hargreaves gave him his morning tea; Miss Boston provided his breakfast and lunch as well as other drinks through the day. Miss Hargreaves took over the care of Mr Massey when she returned from work, serving him his supper and his various drinks. She always made him a cup of tea to take up to bed. It was Miss Hargreaves who gave Ernest his medicines; both women bathed him, ‘without fail’, twice a week.