Three Times Removed

by M K Jones

  The ride across the Bristol Channel was uneventful. Jack spent a lot of time below deck, watching the pistons working the gigantic engines that powered the paddle wheel. Alice sunned herself on the deck.

  After a visit to Ilfracombe, where they spent a couple of hours having lunch overlooking the small harbour, and then briefly exploring the town, the steamer returned back across the Channel and up the river at sunset. As the wharf came into sight they all stood on the lower deck admiring the sunset over the mountains behind Newport.

  “I don’t suppose much has changed since the Victorians first took this trip,” Maggie said to Zelah. “I wonder if whoever owned that newspaper clipping got to take the trip to Weston-super-Mare?”

  “I don’t suppose we’ll ever know. Right, we need to move along to the gangplank.”

  As they reached the edge the crowd pushed together and Maggie felt herself being pulled away from the children and Zelah. She had one foot on the gangplank when she heard Alice call her and gesture that they would meet her at the car. As she turned back she felt a jolt, lost her footing, and fell. Unable to hold onto the rope, she struggled for something to cling on to and for a few terrified seconds thought she was going to fall into the water between the ship and the wharf. But then a strong arm grabbed her and pulled her back.

  “That was close, madam!” A member of the crew had reached her just in time to stop her going over. She had lost one of her shoes in the scramble and bent down to find it. She could hear the children shouting somewhere behind. Suddenly, she was overwhelmed by a terrible, putrid smell.

  The children and Zelah reached her. Alice was in tears. “Mummy! I thought you’d fallen in! Are you alright?”

  “I’m fine. Really,” she added, seeing Jack’s frightened face. “Must have been that last glass of wine!” She smiled confidently at them, retrieved her shoe and ushered them along the gangplank. “I’m glad to get away from that pong! Did you smell it? Just like the canal the other day, and the cemetery,” she said to Zelah.

  They shook their heads. Clear of the departing passengers, she chatted cheerfully until the children seemed calm. They thanked Zelah, then took the key and headed off to get into the car.

  “Are you OK?” Zelah asked once they were out of earshot. “What happened?”

  “A hand in the small of my back happened. I was pushed. Don’t let on to the kids, keep smiling.”

  “Of course,” Zelah replied, nodding her head. “Was it deliberate?”

  “Yes, I think so. It was too hard to be an accident. Did you see anything?”

  “No, I was trapped in the crowd. Maggie, I think we might be getting close to something, but I have no idea what it is. Whatever it is, it doesn’t look good. Or smell good. Take care. Of all of you.”

  “I will.” Maggie gave Zelah a quick hug. “I’ll call you Monday. It’s been a wonderful day. Other than that. Thank you.” Zelah waved her away and got into her waiting taxi.

  Fifty Eight

  On Monday morning, with a heavy heart, Maggie entered the corporate headquarters of FutureLife Computing plc, signed in and sat in a rather scruffy armchair to wait for her interviewer. The Operations. Director was almost twenty minutes late and took her into a windowless room without apologising.

  Despite trying, Maggie didn’t warm to him. The more the interview went on, the more she sat back and let him talk, which he seemed happy to do. She had tuned out during his speech about how busy he was with staff issues and how much he needed the support of someone like herself, when he suddenly stopped. He asked her when she could start.

  “Oh, um, when would you like me to start?” Maggie was caught off guard and cursed inwardly.

  “Well, we could do with you starting next Monday, but I understand you have some domestic issues, Mrs Gilbert, or can I call you Maggie, now you’re almost one of us?” he leaned forwards and flashed his teeth. “We have a lot for you to get started on!”

  “Well, I have to find someone to look after my children. How about the beginning of July? That’s just a couple of weeks. And, of course, I did say that I have a holiday in August.”

  “Oh, is it already booked?”

  “Unfortunately, and there’s a big cancellation charge,” Maggie lied.

  “Well, we’ll honour that, unpaid, of course. But next year, you’ll have to check with me first and I’m afraid you won’t be top of the list for August. But anyway,” he went on, “the beginning of July will be fine. Glad to have you on board.” He began to punch numbers into his Blackberry. “I’ll have HR send out your contract. I’ll see you out.”

  Maggie followed him along corridors past offices full of grim-faced people scowling at computer screens, until they reached the foyer.

  “Goodbye, Maggie, see you soon!” They shook hands and he turned away.

  As Maggie thanked the receptionist and headed for the door, she could hear him shouting into his mobile.

  “I need this job. I need this job!” Maggie muttered through clamped teeth as she walked across the car park.

  Back at home she phoned her sister. Fiona was thrilled at the news and offered at once to pick the children up from school for the remainder of the term until Maggie could find a sitter.

  “You must be so relieved, Mags. And it sounds like a wonderful opportunity. Plenty of chances for promotion! And what’s the boss like? Tell all!”

  Maggie replied despondently, “Uninspiring, but you’re right, it’s a job.”

  There was silence on the phone for a few seconds. “Mags, please try. For the children if not for yourself.”

  Maggie said her goodbyes and put the phone down.

  Later, in the car, she told Jack and Alice in a predictable silence. When she explained that Aunty Fee would be picking them up, Maggie thought she heard a groan from the back, but ignored it.

  “Will she bring us home, or back to her house?” Alice asked.

  “She can bring you home, I think. I’d like to be able to trust you both to be at home for an hour or so until I get back. You can manage that without arguing?”

  “Suppose so,” Jack replied, although Alice didn’t.

  As they got out of the car, he put an arm round her shoulder. “Sorry, Mum.”

  “I know,” she sighed, “but I’m going to have to grit my teeth and get on with it. They’re paying me a good salary, which we need.”

  In the hall she tried to hug Alice, but was pushed away.

  “Don’t worry, Mum. She’ll get used to it.”

  I’m not sure I will, Maggie thought.

  Fifty Nine

  The office of Robyn, Hanley & Hicks was on one of the roads leading into Newport from the east, a red-brick Victorian conversion on three floors. The reception area was silent, the clattering of the receptionist’s fingers on a keyboard the only sign of activity. The hollow tick of a big clock echoed from the hall.

  “More like a funeral parlour,” Zelah remarked in a voice loud enough for the receptionist to frown.

  Maggie was about to say something placating when a dignified secretary entered and announced that Mr Robyn was ready to receive them. Zelah flashed a wicked grin, as the secretary led them out of the reception office and up the wide staircase, through a set of double doors, and into a conference room, in the middle of which sat an ornate, highly polished, dark wood conference table with twelve chairs. Zelah went straight for the chair at the head of the table. When Maggie suggested that they sit at the side, she raised her eyebrows.

  “Give the old boy a chance to feel even more superior? I don’t think so!”

  Mr Robyn entered, the secretary walking in step behind him carrying a stack of papers. He shook hands briefly with Maggie, frowned at Zelah, and walked to the opposite side of the table. The secretary sat next to him.

  “I requested proof of your identity, Mrs Gilbert.”

  Maggie handed over her passport and birth certificate, which Mr Robyn handed on to the secretary with a perfunctory wave.

  “I have the la
st will and testament of Mrs Louisa Jenkins, Mrs Gilbert. She summoned me a few days before her death, indeed the day after your second meeting with her, to make an addition to her dispersements. A portion of her funds has been left to the Goldendays nursing home, in gratitude for the care they gave her. Another goes to St Cadoc’s church restoration fund. There is a modest sum for Nurse Crowley. The remainder,” he paused and coughed as if trying to expel something unpalatable from his throat, “…the remainder is left to yourself. A sum of ten thousand pounds.”

  Maggie’s eyes widened in amazement and Zelah bared her teeth at him in a polite smile. “So that’s what you were so annoyed about,” she remarked.

  “I beg your pardon, Mrs…” he turned to look with disgusted at Zelah, then frowned. “Have we met?”

  “Yes, we have. And been introduced. Zelah Fitzgerald. I’m a friend of Mrs Gilbert, but you would have found that out if you had bothered to ask, wouldn’t you?” The words were spoken politely enough, but Maggie shuffled in her seat awkwardly. The expression that came over Mr Robyn’s face stopped her and she understood at once that he remembered who Zelah was and when he had met her. His face widened into a fawning smile.

  “Mrs Fitzgerald! How lovely to meet you again. Wonderful exhibition! Can I offer you ladies some refreshments?” He turned to his secretary, but Zelah stopped him.

  “No, you can’t.”

  Maggie cut in firmly to keep the conversation on track. “Thank you, Zelah. Now, Mr Robyn, please continue. We don’t need tea, but thanks for the offer.”

  “Very well, Mrs Gilbert.” Another wave of the hand at the secretary, this time to remain in the room.

  “As I was saying, Mrs Jenkins has left you ten thousand pounds, and her few pieces of jewellery, for the kindness you showed her and your determination to do your duty as a relative.” He smiled unctuously, any sign of the previous disapproval gone.

  “In addition, she has left you these papers. They had been kept here and were due to be destroyed under her previous will. How delightful they will now go to a member of her family!”

  From the secretary he took a large envelope and handed it to Maggie. “I shall arrange for the cheque to be sent to you following the usual probate which will take some months.”

  Maggie stood up. “Thank you, Mr Robyn. I left my address with your receptionist.”

  “Let me see you out,” he replied, still smiling, and led the way downstairs, chatting amiably, but primarily to Zelah. At the entrance, he opened the door for them.

  “If there is anything else I can do for you, Mrs Gilbert, do let me know.” He shook her hand quickly then turned to Zelah. “And if I can be of service in any way, Mrs Fitzgerald, my firm would be delighted.”

  “I’ll let you know,” Zelah smiled at him, pulling away from his two-handed grasp.

  As they walked around the building to the car park, Maggie waited for the explosion, but Zelah remained quiet. When they reached their cars, she said, “How about coming back to my flat to have a look at those papers? It’s only five minutes’ away.”

  “Great,” Maggie replied. “And well contained.”

  Zelah grimaced and got into her car. “Follow me.”

  They drove along the main road until they were almost out of the town. Zelah turned off and up a steep, winding hill. Sitting on the flat ground at the top of the hill was a small hamlet, an old church at its centre and a group of houses of varying ages surrounding it. Although she had passed near to this place many times Maggie had never driven up here before. The view was stunning, across the Channel on one side and mountains on the other. Zelah stopped outside an elegant block of flats and walked back to Maggie.

  “There’s a garage underneath, but the cars are safe enough here. Follow me.”

  Using an electronic passkey to open the front door, she went to the lift in the foyer and pressed the button for the third floor. The carpeted lift rose silently. Outside the lift there were two doors. Zelah opened the door on the left. Maggie followed her in, and stopped immediately.

  “Wow!” she gasped, gazing around, then followed Zelah who had swept open the double living room doors and stood back.

  The room ran half the length of the building. One wall comprised three full height windows, each framing a view of the mountains. The décor was pure white: walls, curtains, furniture and luxurious deep carpet. On the remaining walls were three of Martin Fitzgerald’s paintings.

  “This is…” Maggie paused to find the right word, “…this is stunning. It’s beautiful. It’s like something you see in one of those designer magazines. Zelah, what fantastic taste!”

  “Thank you. Not many people get in here. I like my privacy. Nice view, isn’t it? Come see the view from the kitchen side.” She led Maggie across the hallway to the kitchen on the opposite side of the corridor.

  The kitchen was small and functional, again exquisitely designed and decorated, but instead of a window, it had double-width sliding doors that led out onto a wide balcony. Zelah pulled back the door. “Let’s sit on the balcony. This is where I have breakfast, when it’s warm enough.”

  The balcony ran the width of the building, with another door opening onto it further along. Around the black glass table and chairs there were a number of pots full of delicate, pale-coloured plants, and an extending white shade spread out overhead.

  “Wait here. I’ll get us some tea.” Zelah disappeared into the kitchen and Maggie admired the view. The balcony had a thick, smoked glass barrier, about four feet high. Maggie had never thought about where Zelah might live; although she’d been initially shocked, it fitted with her style.

  While she waited, Maggie opened up Mr Robyn’s foolscap envelope and peered in. She could see envelopes and papers tied up with ribbon.

  “I think this is old correspondence,” she said to Zelah who had returned with a loaded tea tray.

  “Don’t open it yet. In case the wind catches it. We’ll go back in, in a minute. I just want you to see the view.”

  At the foot of the hill, and across a flat plain, the Severn Estuary wound like a silver ribbon towards the sea. In mid-Channel, the air was misty, but Maggie guessed that on a clear day the hills and coastline of Somerset would be in clear view.

  “How long have you lived here, Zelah?”

  “Since Martin died. We used to live in Caerleon. Nice house, near the Roman ruins. But I couldn’t stay there after he died. Too big. Too empty.” She gazed at the Channel as she spoke.

  “Then I found this place. Nice and quiet. No children. Sorry, no offence!”

  “None taken,” Maggie grinned. “Did you ever think when you were a child that you’d end up somewhere as luxurious as this?”

  “When I was a child I didn’t expect to live long enough to grow up,” Zelah replied, still staring out across the water. Maggie sat back, startled.

  After a few seconds Zelah continued, “I don’t talk much about Cornwall. It’s hard. Anyway, let’s go and look at those papers.”

  Sixty

  Maggie spoke first. “This is Louisa’s birth certificate. And this looks like, yes, it’s John’s death certificate. I’ve already got a copy.”

  She opened another envelope. The first letter was addressed to Ruthie Evans from a Mrs Margaret Robertson at an address in Carmarthen. There were four in all, and the last, a letter from Maggie’s Ruth to a Mrs Picton in Carmarthen, was written but not sent. The first four were dated 1883 and 1884, the final one 1909. Maggie opened the first letter.

  Zelah had done the same with the package of ducuments she was looking through. “These are condolence letters to your great-grandmother, when her husband died, all from 1909, I think.”

  “I’m not sure yet who wrote mine,” Maggie replied, “except this last one from my Ruth to Mary Anne Picton, which never got posted. I think we’re onto something here. Listen.” Maggie read the letter, dated September 1883.

  “My Dear Sister,

  May God keep you well. I am indeed most sorry to hear of y
our daughter Ruth’s sore trouble.” Maggie broke off reading. “This sounds like it was written to my Ruth’s mother, Ruthie Evans, my great-great-grandmother.”

  “We pray daily for the safe return of your Ruth’s little daughter and for her own return to health.

  I can give you a little of the knowledge you have asked of me, but not, I fear, a great deal, for my memory fails to recall much of my youth. Our great-grandmother’s life was blighted by the loss of a child, a girl, ten years of age. She drowned in a strange accident, her friend with her. Our grandmother told me a little of the events that she had from her own mother. That no-one could understand how it happened from the accounts given and the evidence present. Of course she was herself much overcome at the death of her twin sister. But the rest of our family did not speak of the events. You know that they lived at that time in Carmarthenshire, being farmers. They felt unable to stay after the loss of their child and moved to Monmouthshire. You are right in remembering that there was a story about a teacher. My grandmother told me that he was not popular, that he showed great resentment towards her mother and sister. And he could not account for his whereabouts when her sister and friend died. But nothing was proved and he left soon after.

  Our grandmother told me that her mother was frightened of the teacher and warned her to take care. They thought he might be some kind of madman. But the family was in Monmouthshire, so why be concerned?

  Our grandmother remembered her sister, of course. But the family never spoke her name again, nor used it for the naming of another child.

  That is all I can tell you of these events, my dear sister. Please write to me with news of your unfortunate granddaughter.

  Your sister in God’s mercy, Margaret.”

  “Well,” said Maggie, looking at Zelah. “Two children accidentally drowning in my family. Coincidence?”

  “Keep reading,” Zelah replied committally.