Miss Boston and Miss Hargreaves

by Rachel Malik

  The distribution of the gardening was not so clear. Miss Boston was the gardener of the household, but Miss Hargreaves helped her from time to time. Ernest was to have done his share, but didn’t. Elsie was going to concrete the path, she said, and Rene bought the weedkiller.

  ‘Miss Boston, it was you who asked Miss Hargreaves to purchase the sodium chlorate, was it not?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you and Miss Hargreaves make a habit of keeping a supply of weedkiller?’

  ‘Oh yes, of course.’

  ‘Had you run out of weedkiller? I understand that you asked Miss Hargreaves to purchase a large tin?’

  ‘We still had a little left in the old tin but I wanted to concrete the path as soon as possible, as soon as the weather was suitable. It needed a good deal of work.’

  ‘And a good deal of weedkiller.’

  ‘Yes, it did.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Miss Boston was also able to give a clear, if halting, account of the events preceding Mr Massey’s death. The afternoon before he died, she had found Ernest slumped in the shed, almost in a trance, and had finally managed to raise him and help him back to the sitting room. He would take no food or drink – though she had tried to persuade him – and when she checked on him later, he had fallen asleep. In the evening, when Miss Hargreaves got back, they both tried to persuade him to eat but he picked at his stew and was only really interested in the prospect of his pint pot. As soon as The Archers was finished, he went out to the kitchen to get it. But he took his time coming back and Miss Hargreaves had gone to see what was the matter. Miss Hargreaves had called her into the kitchen and she had rushed through to find him slumped at the kitchen table. They got him back to the sitting room with some difficulty, thinking he could sleep in his chair, but he seemed to revive. They all listened to the news and a quiz. By this time, Elsie thought he was quite back to himself, and he carried his bottle and mug out to the kitchen as usual.

  ‘And did Mr Massey request anything else to eat or drink?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And, to the best of your knowledge, did Mr Massey seek out or consume further food or drink that night?’

  ‘To the best of my knowledge, no. But you could never be sure with him – sometimes he went downstairs at night, rummaged around.’ She came to a sudden halt.

  ‘Did Miss Hargreaves make a cup of tea for Mr Massey that evening?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘You’re not sure.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure.’

  ‘Why is that? Did you see her?’

  ‘It’s what she always did.’

  ‘I understand it was her routine, but you didn’t see her make the cup of tea yourself?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Had you … gone upstairs by this time?’

  ‘No. I was outside.’

  ‘Outside?’

  ‘I went outside, so I could go to the toilet.’ Elsie looked uncomfortable.

  ‘And did you see Mr Massey’s mug, his pot, in the kitchen at any point?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you didn’t wonder where it might be?’

  ‘No, Miss Hargreaves always washed his things in the evening.’

  ‘That was her job?’

  ‘In the evening, yes, it was.’

  The judge announced lunch. Miss Boston would continue giving her evidence at two. Mr Clifford thought that the morning had gone well, considering. Mr Quillet was glad he had chosen not to ask any questions so far.

  Elsie saw Rene disappear through a door she hadn’t even noticed. She had to follow everyone else, pressed down the staircase to the lobby and towards the door. She needed to get away, to get outside. It was only when she passed on to the top step of the building that she remembered the flood. It was bright sunshine now and calm. Down in the market square, the water glimmered silver and blue; closer up, in the courtyard, it was dark with just the odd gleam of oily rainbow. In between were the high iron railings they had come through this morning. If only she could leave now. It was a long way back to the hotel through the water, but she had her boots. But she couldn’t leave. It wasn’t over yet, and Rene was locked somewhere in the dreadful building behind her. She couldn’t leave without Rene. Dear Rene, her hair looked so shiny and nice and she liked the new pullover, but she was so thin. She knew she hadn’t been eating properly – whatever her letters said. Poor Rene. She so hoped that everything would be all right.

  Elsie turned around unwillingly and went back through the big door into the lobby. There, she was immediately caught up in a hubbub of people. Momentarily, she was distracted by a thin, sharp-faced woman who eyed her intently; a woman with impossible, silver-bright hair. Elsie turned away, belatedly remembering Margaret, looking round for her, but it was hopeless in the crowd. Slowly, very slowly, she made her way back up the stairs to the first-floor waiting room.

  In her office-cell, Rene sat at the desk, looking at the plate of sandwiches. The bread was grey-white and the ham was thin as paper. She was handcuffed to another prisoner officer, Susan Lyle, who was noisily stirring her tea. Susan Lyle made Rene all too aware of her confinement. There was no aimless wandering about the room as there had been with Maureen, no idle gazing out of the window. Officer Lyle had accompanied Rene on her long journey from London and she knew Rene quite well, but that didn’t mean she liked her. Quite the reverse. Rene didn’t understand it – they had been quite friendly when she first arrived at Holloway. Her thoughts settled quickly on the morning. It hadn’t started so badly with Leo’s statement, and Margaret had been so kind, and then Elsie. Poor Elsie. The awful gap after her name was called, the sound of her big boots in the corridor outside. How oddly she had stood in the doorway; it had felt like an age. And then that slow journey across the courtroom, the minor turbulence she left behind, the pile of papers knocked from the desk. She had expected Elsie to be ill at ease, but she was not prepared for how severe and strange she looked, that unrelenting grey bun – what had she done to her hair? Everyone in the courtroom had been looking, that was what it felt like anyhow, and their eyes were catching.

  Rene saw again the big, awkward figure standing in the doorway, looking deep into her hands. Just for a moment Elsie had looked up and found her, found her so easily, without looking round. It was just a moment, but they were good at small smiles. But then it was past and all Rene could see was the absurd bun, the boots, the heavy man’s coat she’d never seen before (it looked – impossibly – new). She had never looked so out of her depth.

  Back in the courtroom, Rene watched Elsie make her way back to the witness box: she was still wearing her coat and boots. She tried to catch her eye again but couldn’t, Elsie was too preoccupied. She moved more slowly this time – perhaps Margaret had told her about the papers falling – and looked even more out of place. Clumsy, the word came to Rene clear as a whisper; she wanted to bat it away but she couldn’t. Clumsy wouldn’t go away, and it was succeeded by other words: strange and odd and poor. They were words she had caught from other people, but for now they were the only ones she could hear.

  Quillet trod very carefully.

  ‘Miss Boston, you said in your statement that you were, and I quote, “obliged to give up my own occupation” when Mr Massey came to live with you, and that “since that time I always remained at home to look after him because he could not be left.”’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You also said that you became “tied to the house” and that this was affecting your health. Was Miss Hargreaves aware of the burden that caring for Mr Massey placed on you?’

  ‘Of course she was.’

  ‘You told her then.’

  ‘I told her.’

  ‘Do you have anything to add to that, Miss Boston?’

  A pause.

  ‘She knew it wasn’t easy for me. It wasn’t easy for either of us.’

  ‘But for you especially? Surely?’

  Elsie said nothing.

  ‘All I meant,
Miss Boston, was that you had a far greater burden of care of Mr Massey.’

  ‘We both did our share. It was very fair.’

  ‘I see, yes. You also had the main responsibility for Wheal Rock. I understand that this is the distribution between you?’

  ‘It is now.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Since I retired. I explained to Mr Clifford this morning.’ She sounded fretful.

  (Bored on his bench, Colin Mackenzie wrote in tiny longhand, Miss Boston is no Mrs.)

  ‘Of course you explained everything to Mr Clifford, of course you did,’ Quillet said soothingly and turned to the jury.

  ‘Miss Boston had the chief responsibility for the care of the rabbits and chickens, the gardening – the two ladies grew much of their own produce –’

  ‘We grew what we could. It wasn’t easy.’

  ‘I’m sure it wasn’t. A busy schedule for somebody who has just turned sixty-five, and with none of the modern household appliances that members of the jury might be familiar with.’

  Elsie looked up and took in the jury properly for the first time. Taken together they did not bother her so very much; one or two did not look at all interested, but anything was better than the attention of the men in wigs.

  She looked down again.

  ‘And to this was added the considerable labour of looking after Mr Massey. It must have been difficult trying to keep everything up.’

  ‘I managed. We managed, nothing suffered.’

  ‘Yes, of course, but when Mr Massey arrived, it must have put considerable pressure on your housekeeping?’

  ‘We had his pension …’

  ‘Miss Boston, no one could doubt the difficulties of your shared situation; it can’t have been easy. Besides, your circumstances were already very constrained prior to Mr Massey’s arrival. Were they not?’

  Silence.

  ‘Miss Boston, your lives couldn’t have been easy before Mr Massey arrived. I’m sure you must agree.’

  Elsie raised her head and looked carefully at Quillet; she looked puzzled.

  ‘I don’t understand you,’ she said.

  ‘Miss Boston, excuse me if I was unclear. What I mean is that you and Miss Hargreaves lived on a very limited income and things can’t have been easy.’

  ‘Our kind of living is never easy. It’s always hard work.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course, but you were struggling to manage before his arrival.’

  ‘We managed.’

  ‘Yes, of course – you were doing the best that you could.’

  ‘We managed.’

  Perhaps Quillet heard something stubborn in her tone. But he didn’t hear her pride. There was more to Elsie’s managed than getting by.

  His manner remained thoughtful, punctuated with nods and frowns of concern: he tended to adopt this mode when the witness was plainly disadvantaged.

  ‘You were doing the best you could …’

  Elsie said nothing.

  ‘I’m sure we can all agree that these were conditions of nobody’s choosing. Would that be a fair assessment?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Miss Boston?’

  ‘It is not a fair assessment.’

  ‘Miss Boston, I intended no offence, but you must accept –’

  ‘We were rich …’

  The words appeared to come out of nowhere, nothing to do with anything. There was a smattering of laughter which dissolved into the damp chill and interest of what might come next. Rene’s hands were cold and clammy; she found all of a sudden that she was breathing very fast. She looked down into the gallery and found her mooring: the woman with the green silk hat. The woman was watching Elsie very intently, and suddenly Rene knew who she was.

  Elsie looked up and faced Quillet, fully stubborn; suddenly it seemed she knew exactly where she was.

  Quillet was momentarily at a loss.

  ‘Miss Boston, you had no electricity.’

  ‘We had no need of it … it was a good life.’

  And Quillet seemed to pick up on the tense at least: she was not just intractable, something had been lost.

  ‘Yes … well. But I’m sure that there must have been times when you wished he’d never come to live with you both at Wheal Rock.’

  ‘Of course I did, we both did. He spoilt things.’ Elsie looked down, the boldness was passing. ‘It was a good life, and he spoilt it.’

  ‘Miss Boston, there must have been times when you shared these feelings with Miss Hargreaves.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, there were.’

  ‘Perhaps you could oblige the court by telling us about one of these occasions. What exactly did you say?’

  There was a silence.

  Then it seemed to Rene that she was no longer standing in the dock, but sitting in the gallery, tightly pressed in the back row, trying to see Elsie with all the rows of people in front of her and there was no room to get a clear sight of her. She was all alone and Rene could do nothing. Rene’s heart was banging against her ribs. And then ahead of her, she saw the woman in the green hat, Vicky, the much-loved, disappearing Mona Verity. Vicky, who had let Joan Bennett escape and had now returned to help her rescue Elsie from the box.

  The silence lengthened.

  ‘I did it,’ Rene said.

  The sound of her voice surprised her.

  ‘I did it. I killed him,’ she said again, louder this time and slower.

  A murmur went round the courtroom but it didn’t get far, blotted by the panelling and the damp.

  ‘Miss Hargreaves,’ said the judge, ‘do I understand that you are changing your plea?’

  A certain rustling expectation took its place. The press finally had a little of what it wanted.

  ‘Yes, yes, I am.’

  ‘You are saying that you poisoned Mr Ernest Massey?’

  ‘Yes, I did. I poisoned him but I didn’t mean to kill him. I wanted him to get sick. I wanted them to come and take him away.’

  The judge nodded the two barristers over; Rene’s solicitor exchanged glances and raised eyebrows with Thomas Walker. Rene stared at the empty place where Quillet had been standing; even her fingers had frozen. She knew that people were looking at her. She had the attention, she and the men in wigs. No one was looking at Elsie now.

  The conference went on and the audience grew restive. Both were interrupted when Elsie climbed down from the witness box and tramped back across the court. The usher tried to stop her, the judge looked up from his conference. Everyone was watching by the time she reached the door. She fumbled with the handle for some moments, then the door clicked open and she was gone.

  A few minutes later, the judge called an adjournment. Rene was led away and the room began to empty. The handsome landing soon filled with people, uncertain what to do next. The jurors were sent back to their room and served tea by a sullen girl who had hoped to be on her way home by now. They were fidgety. Some thought they would now be dismissed and were relieved or disappointed accordingly. Further down the corridor, Patrick Clifford and Marcus Quillet, having finished with the judge, shared a whisky before returning to talk to their respective solicitors. It was only then that Clifford went to the office where Rene was being held to explain what would happen next.

  The press adjourned promptly to the Crown. More whisky, a few predictable jokes, mainly at Miss Boston’s expense, speculation about the likely sequence of events. Young Mackenzie had his bit of excitement now – the accused had not disappointed – but he was tired and confused. It would be simple now, Babs said, the jury would have a straight choice between murder or manslaughter. She was pretty sure it would be murder. The reporter from the Mail joined them, and the talk soon turned technical; Mackenzie had neither the will nor the grasp of legal procedure to follow. ‘Keep up, cub,’ Babs laughed. Much later in the evening, Mackenzie came up with a line that pleased him, though not one he could use: ‘The whippet jumped the gun.’ Can a cub call a woman a whippet?

  * * *

  The following morning w
as grey and mild. The levels were falling; the rule of water was ending. The courtyard was no longer a lake, more of a shallow pond. In the lobby, some continued to dress for the flood; most trailed mud and dirt in from outside. The floor was filthy and the caretaker was fighting a losing battle with his mop.

  Upstairs the court reassembled and Rene was questioned again. She confirmed what she had said the day before. She had poisoned Ernest, yes, she had given him a small amount of sodium chlorate on a good number of occasions; yes, she had added it to various drinks that she gave him over some days, maybe even a week. But she hadn’t meant to kill him, of course she hadn’t, and she wished things had turned out differently. She was questioned about her intentions in some detail, and Quillet reflected on her changed manner – for the first time, compliant. She spoke as clearly as she had before, but she sounded regretful. He would not have trusted stagy contrition, he doubted it was in her, but she certainly seemed genuine now – probably the relief. When the questioning was over, Rene sought her ally in the gallery and found her. They nodded at each other fractionally and Rene saw the trace of a smile – Vicky’s was the only friendly face she saw that day. Neither Elsie nor Margaret was anywhere to be seen.

  In the end, the jury took just three hours to reach their verdict. Maybe they wanted to make up for the time wasted by the defendant. There was very little discussion. Not guilty of murder; guilty of manslaughter.

  When the verdict was announced, Miss Hargreaves collapsed and had to be carried unconscious from the court.

  The usher brought the news to Miss Boston and Mrs Cuff, who were sitting in the waiting room. He spoke to Mrs Cuff, who was very shocked. Miss Boston sat quite still, looking into the distance. It was left to Mrs Cuff to explain, and she waited until the usher had gone. And then all she said was:

  ‘Come on, Elsie dear, we’d best be going. We must go home now and then we’ll see what’s best to do.’