Three Times Removed

by M K Jones

  “So you were right about someone being there, and she can hear you. But she’s probably terrified, poor woman.”

  “That’s why I didn’t really want to do it. Voices in her head when she’s grieving could make her think she’s going mad.”

  “No, you’ve always thought she was a sensible woman. She’ll sit in your chair and rationalise it. Anyway, I’ve got to go. Got some important personal business for the next two days, no time to research.”

  Maggie was crestfallen. “What about getting back into Ruth’s family? I thought we were going to concentrate on that?”

  “Why don’t you do it? You’ve got the internet census records. There’s plenty there. See what you can come up with. Sorry, Maggie, got to go. If you need any quick help with checking birth, marriage, or death details, leave me a message and I’ll get someone to check it out.” She hung up.

  Maggie sat for a moment, feeling abandoned. So little time left and Zelah was suddenly going off doing her own thing! She hadn’t even had a chance to tell her about her experience at The Pond. But Zelah had a life of her own and it wasn’t fair to expect her to take all of her time researching Maggie’s family, no matter how absorbing it had become.

  Over the next couple of days she heard nothing from Zelah. She had left one message asking for certificate details to give her female names before marriage. This allowed her to jump back generations. Replies came by email.

  By Sunday evening, Maggie had gone back a further three generations of Ruth’s family on the female side. She had steadfastly ignored the urge to follow up some of the more fascinating information she found en route and kept to her task. The most important thing she had confirmed, was that the first drowned child was called Alice, almost a hundred years before Esme.

  By the time she called Zelah on Monday morning, she knew that her four-times-great-grandmother, Ruth Gwyllim, the twin sister of the Alice who died, had been born in 1786 in Llanybri, in Carmarthen, had married a James Evans in 1805, and had died in 1861 in Monmouthshire. She also discovered that the county records office in Carmarthen held details of school records for the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. So there was a chance that they could find out more about the schoolmaster at the time of Alice Gwyllim’s death.

  “Excellent! I’ve just picked up the new family tree you emailed me.” She paused, checking it.

  “How sure are you that these are the right people?”

  “As much as I can be from just looking at internet records. What else can I do to be absolutely certain?”

  Zelah thought for a moment. “I’m sure this is right. It fits in with everything Louisa told you and what we found out from the letters. The names are all there. I’d like to be sure of the Carmarthen births and marriages, though. Shall we go there tomorrow? We’ll have to stay overnight, to be sure of having enough time to check the facts and search school records.”

  “I’ll have to check with Fee, make sure she can have Jack and Alice, but otherwise, yes, we might as well.”

  “You don’t sound very enthusiastic?”

  “I just got my contract. I start two weeks today.”

  “Oh. Are you going to sign it?”

  “Well, of course I’m going to sign it! It’s not like there’s a choice for me.” Maggie knew that she had raised her voice.

  “If there was a choice, would you take it?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose that would depend on what it was.” She interrupted again as Zelah began to speak. “Why? Is there one? Do you know about another job?”

  “No,” Zelah said quietly, after a brief hesitation. “Now then, how about you speak to your sister and I pick you up at ten tomorrow? I’ll book a couple of rooms at a B&B, OK?”

  Maggie sighed. “OK. By the way, I went to visit the lake up on the mountain, the one that used to be called The Pond. Where Esme Ellis drowned. I felt I had to know where it is. It’s important, but I don’t know why.”

  “Anything interesting?” Zelah asked.

  “No, not really. Just that it was very familiar. I had a strange feeling of having been there before, although I know I never have been.”

  “Maybe your great-grandmother went there. She wanted to see where it happened, too. It’s another one of her memories.”

  “Hmm. See you tomorrow.”

  Sixty Two

  June 1909

  Richard Robinson called for Ruth at ten as agreed. She had informed Maud and James that she would be away for the day in the company of Mr Robinson, but no more than that and steadfastly avoided further discussion about where she was going or what she intended to do.

  They travelled to Garth Hill station in a hired cab and at ten twenty they took their seats in the private first-class compartment of the train. Richard deemed this to be the only possible way of travelling to protect her reputation and identity. Fortunately, they knew no-one waiting on the platform.

  “Just as well not to say anything, I think,” Ruth remarked as they settled themselves amidst the whistling, shunting and bellowing of the steam train that marked the start of the journey. “No point in causing unwanted gossip. I am very grateful, you know, Richard, I know how difficult this is for you, and you know how much this means to me.”

  “Well, Ruth, we have an hour or more to pass before we reach Hereford station. The views along the route are delightful.”

  “I have never travelled by train before,” she remarked.

  When the train had passed through Pontypool and out into the country, Richard spoke.

  “Ruth, you shocked me to my very core last week when you told me that you believe that Eira Probert killed Esme Ellis. I’ve thought about almost nothing else since. But your evidence is tenuous. What else can you tell me about those times? What else allows you to believe that a schoolteacher might be a murderer?”

  “I know now that Eira lied about her whereabouts on the day that Esme died. As I told you last week, I finally understood what Gwen Ellis tried to tell me at the time, that Eira wasn’t at the school, as she had told the constables. That is a big lie for a woman who was supposed to be respected in our community.” He reluctantly nodded.

  “Gwen went to the school, looking for Esme. When she said ‘she wasn’t there’ she meant the teacher, not Esme. Eira Probert wasn’t at the school. But she claimed later that she went to visit Pugh once Alice was released from her detention. I don’t believe that either. I’m hoping that his widow will confirm this.”

  He spent a few minutes looking out of the window, at the expanse of the Severn Estuary next to the track, frowning at his own silver-haired reflection.

  “It does seem as though Miss Probert was not entirely truthful, but that doesn’t lead to her killing a child. Why on earth would she do so? I know that she wasn’t popular with them, and that she singled out Alice. I know that Mr Pugh caused a rift in the community. But the murder of a child is a serious accusation to make, Ruth.” He shook his head.

  “There’s a history in my family, that may be connected,” she replied. My mother’s great-grandmother lost a child through drowning. I don’t know much about the story, but I know that suspicion fell on a schoolmaster.”

  This was too much for him. “But there must be a hundred years between the two incidents, Ruth!” he exclaimed. “You can’t believe that they’re connected.”

  She was disconcerted by the force of his indignation, not sure of how to respond, for only now she realised how much she had relied on his belief as well as his support.

  “Can you say with certainty that they aren’t connected Richard? What if Eira Probert was a descendant of the schoolmaster in Carmarthen?”

  “What if she were, Ruth?”

  “And how do you explain her appearance at John’s funeral service? She looked as if no time had passed since I last saw her.”

  He looked away, shaking his head and Ruth knew that he was succumbing to her children’s belief that she was so overwrought at John’s death that her imagination was leading her int
o strange places.

  “I know what I saw,” she said firmly, “and will not be told that I didn’t see her.”

  “Perhaps you saw someone who looked like her.”

  There was no point in continuing to debate with him. She didn’t want to fall out with this man who had been hers and John’s greatest friend and supporter. For the remainder of the journey they watched the scenery, Richard pointing out landmarks of interest, keeping their conversation to less contentious matters.

  One and a half hours later, the train arrived at Hereford. Outside the station, Richard located the hansom cab that he had written to reserve for the drive to the Pugh’s house in Gwynne Street.

  This was also the first time that Ruth had been to England. She was captivated by the old cathedral, staring at the grand edifice as the cab skirted around it, passing the market, through the main streets, and to their destination.

  “This is a pretty town, Richard. In better times, I should like to visit the cathedral.”

  “It has a very beautiful interior. Well worth a visit. Ah, we have arrived.”

  The cab had descended into a sloping and curving street of medium-sized, terraced houses, bounded across the roadway by a high wall. They found Mrs Pugh’s house and, instructing the cab to pick them up again in one hour, went to the door.

  Their ring was answered by a maid, who took them into a dark, musty, heavily furnished parlour, where Mrs Pugh was waiting for them. Ruth’s nose told her this room was used only for receiving occasional visitors. Mrs Pugh instructed the maid to bring in tea, and sat herself regally in a high-backed chair.

  Ruth could barely remember the small, stout woman, dressed in black crêpe, as was Ruth. Her face was impassive as Ruth and Richard sat.

  “Thank you for seeing us, Mrs Pugh. This must be a very difficult time for you.”

  “As for yourself,” the woman inclined her head in acknowledgement, speaking with a broad West Country accent. “You feel able to travel now.”

  “Yes, thank you. Ruth replied and went on before Mrs Pugh could ask more detailed questions. This is my first visit to Hereford. It seems to be a pretty town.”

  “My husband was content in his time here. It was a respectful chapel.”

  Ruth knew that this was as much directed at her as at Richard, but she smiled as the maid brought in the tea tray. Ruth had already decided to be direct. When they were all served, she spoke. “Mrs Pugh, when I wrote to your husband I asked him about the schoolteacher who taught at Garth Hill during his time there, Miss Eira Probert.”

  Mrs Pugh nodded, her face remained expressionless.

  “At my husband’s funeral, I believe I saw Miss Probert in the crowd at chapel. She didn’t approach me.”

  The teacup in Mrs Pugh’s hand rattled against its saucer and she put it quickly to her lips.

  “Miss Probert’s appearance was strange. She seemed not to have aged since I last saw her, thirty years ago.”

  Mrs Pugh looked up. The redness of her lips was distinct against the whiteness of her face. “At my dear husband’s service, I believe I saw her, too.”

  “And her appearance?” Ruth sat forwards eagerly.

  “Unchanged, as you say.”

  Richard, who had been content to sit back and allow Ruth to lead the conversation, now put his teacup on the table at his side and spoke directly to Mrs Pugh.

  “My dear Mrs Pugh, can you be certain that it was the same woman?”

  “Yes, Mr Robinson, I can. She smiled at me. If you have seen that smile but once, Mr Robinson, it’s not easily forgotten.”

  Ruth nodded. “That’s what I saw.” She drew a deep breath. “Mrs Pugh, may I ask, when you and Mr Pugh left Garth Hill for Hereford, did your husband invite Miss Probert to join him?”

  The woman’s reply was firm. “No, he did not. He did not wish to see her ever again. Nor did he invite her to teach at Garth Hill at the beginning. He had never met her or heard of her when we arrived at… that place.”

  She spoke the last few words with a grim expression and a look of distaste.

  “Thank you, Mrs Pugh. I believed that to be the case, but I wanted your confirmation. I have one more question.” She hesitated, trying to decide how to ask and conscious of Richard shifting in his seat.

  “You know that my daughter Alice disappeared during your time at Garth Hill.”

  She nodded.

  “We have never been able to find her,” Ruth’s voice shook, “but since the death of my husband there have been several instances, including the appearance of Miss Probert at his funeral service, that have led me to think again about her disappearance. On the day that she disappeared, Miss Probert said that she was in the schoolhouse with Mr Pugh and that she walked with him from there to your house, where she stayed.” She paused, watching Mrs Pugh closely. “Can you tell me if that was what happened?”

  The colour had returned to Mrs Pugh’s cheeks in the form of two bright red spots and Ruth guessed that Mrs Pugh was fighting an inner battle between truthfulness and the urge to protect her dead husband. She waited, keeping her eyes fixed firmly on Mrs Pugh.

  “It was a long time ago, Mrs Jones. My memory is not so clear.”

  “I think, Mrs Pugh, that you would not have invited me here if you intended to lie to me.”

  She ignored the small gasp from Richard.

  “I lost my child, Mrs Pugh. Please, help me to understand anything I can about why that might have been. I just want to know.”

  Ruth looked up at the mantelpiece, at the photograph of Robert Pugh standing haughtily behind his seated wife and their three children. Mrs Pugh saw her looking. It must have been the pleading in her voice that decided Mrs Pugh to speak. “It was not the truth. Miss Probert did not see my husband at all that afternoon.” Now the words came out in a rush. “The next Sunday, she didn’t appear at chapel, nor at Sunday school. When my husband went later to enquire, she told him to mind his own business. She was… strange in her behaviour. She seemed panicked. He couldn’t understand it. And… she smelled, quite horribly. There seemed to be something wrong with her face. My husband returned that evening to see her, fearing she might be ill. What he saw affected him for the rest of his life.” Mrs Pugh was now trembling so much she had to put down her cup. Richard was alarmed and offered to send for the maid, but Mrs Pugh refused.

  “Allow me to finish, then I shall never speak of this again.” She took a moment to compose herself, put her hands together in her lap, then continued.

  “When my husband arrived at the schoolhouse cottage, Miss Probert had wrapped up her face. She was taking the wrapping off as he entered. He saw… he saw that her skin seemed to be dripping off her face. She opened her mouth and howled at him. The inside of her mouth was completely black.” Mrs Pugh put her hand up to her mouth, as if to hold in the horror of what she was saying. Richard moved to help, but she put up her hand.

  “My husband left immediately. When he returned home he was violently ill. The next day she seemed normal. Mr Pugh resigned his position immediately and we left as soon as we were able. We never saw Miss Probert again.”

  There was so much that Ruth wanted to ask, torn between sympathy for the woman’s distress and her own anger at what they had concealed, information that might have helped in the search for Alice.

  “Did Mr Pugh have an opinion on what it was that he saw?”

  “He never spoke of it. Ever! And now I have related this to you, I shall never speak of it again.”

  “One final question, Mrs Pugh. I am right in surmising that you are the person who told Mrs Ellis not to speak of what she discovered, or her children would be taken away?” Her face instantly reddened. She said nothing, but after a moment, nodded, then looked defiantly at them.

  “I have nothing further to say.” She stood.

  Both Ruth and Richard understood the dismissal.

  “Thank you for speaking to us, Mrs Pugh. I understand that this was hard for you,” Richard said, anxious to leave befor
e Ruth said anything she might come to regret.

  As the door closed behind them, Ruth turned to him, her face blazing. “Well, Richard, do you still think me overwrought with grief?”

  Sixty Three

  June 2015

  As they drove down the motorway, Maggie told Zelah that she had posted her job contract.

  “So that gives me only ten days. And I think this will be the last major chunk of time I can devote to research. Next week, I want to spend time with the kids, help them with homework and projects, just be there for them. They don’t like the idea of having to depend on their aunt for a lift home, but I’ve explained that they’ll be there for just a couple of hours without me. And I’ve agreed that if they can manage themselves without fighting, I’ll review the sitter. But I need someone for the summer holidays, so I need to get on with that next week.”

  Zelah grinned, “As you say. Let’s get the most out of this then. By the way,” she pointed to a page of a newspaper on the floor, “I found thatat the weekend.”

  Maggie picked it up and saw an advertisement for a tour of a stately home.

  “It’s Knyghton!” she exclaimed, reading through the small print under the photo. “A tour for old girls. I’ll definitely book myself to go on that. I’ve been promising myself that I’d go and look at it again, ever since I got back.” She read on. “Next Saturday. I can take Alice with me. I’ve told her so many times about where I went to school. It’ll be fun and it’ll get me away from the graveside stuff.”

  “Are you still bothered about that?”

  “Much less than a couple of weeks ago.” Maggie paused, considering. “I never thought I’d reach a point where I’d know that I’ve been communing with a ghost,” she gave Zelah a “don’t interrupt” look and continued, “and talk about it as if it’s like an everyday happening. Like putting out the bins, or hanging out the washing.”

  “We all get there, in the end.” Zelah kept her eyes on the road.

  It took a couple of hours to reach Carmarthen. They found the hotel Zelah had chosen on the main street and checked in, then walked to the records office. It was market day.