by M K Jones
“Well, have I got some news for you!”
“It was a worthwhile trip, then?”
“It most certainly was. Do you want to meet up, or shall I give it to you now?”
Maggie sensed tension in Zelah’s voice. “Tell me now. I can’t meet you until Monday and I don’t think I can wait.”
“Well, it took some searching, but I found a list of teachers who visited the Llanstefan area as circulating teachers at the time of the drownings.”
“Great!” Maggie exclaimed. “And you found something that’ll help us? Zelah?” There was an uncharacteristic silence at the other end of the phone.
“I’m not sure about help. But I think your great-great-grandmother made an assumption when she spoke about the teacher who was suspected at the time as a “he”. They may just have assumed that it was a man.”
“Why?”
“Because one of the teachers was a name we’ve seen before. A woman, by the name of Eira Probert.”
“The same name in Charles Morris’s letter to Ruth!”
“Maggie, I think it was the same woman.”
Sixty Five
June 1909
Once they were seated in their carriage and the train pulled out of the station, they faced each other and spoke at last.
“Well, Richard?” Ruth was pale, outwardly calm but beneath her skirt her legs were shaking.
“I don’t know what to say, Ruth. This is the strangest set of events I have ever come across. It defies explanation.”
“I think,” she began slowly, “that we should not spend our time looking for an explanation. I agree, that there is none that God-fearing people can understand. I believe that we have stumbled across something evil.” She stopped, waiting to see if he would disagree, but he slowly nodded his head.
“Loathe though I am to admit such thoughts, I have it in my mind, that you may be right.” He clasped his hands together and twisted them around. Ruth realised the dreadful upset she had forced on him. Then, suddenly, he slapped his hands onto his knees.
“But we must do something. Now that we know, we must do something.”
“When we left Mrs Pugh I felt the same, my mind was in turmoil. I had expected much of our meeting and I wasn’t disappointed.” She smiled a thin grimace.
“When I heard what that dreadful woman had to say I wanted to take action, any action. To find out at last that there was something to know, and that it had been kept secret for so long! But now I know what I must do.”
“What, Ruth?” Richard asked hopefully.
“Nothing, Richard. I must do nothing.”
The shock of her response froze him in his seat and he stared at her, open-mouthed, searching for words.
“I wanted to believe that the Pughs knew something that would help me to find Alice, although I knew that was unlikely. We know now that Alice ran away from Eira Probert, that much is definite, you agree?” Richard nodded. “But what are we to do with this information? Probert – whatever she is – disappeared thirty years ago. She has made two appearances, both at funerals. It’s in my mind that she is still watching my family. And the more we fear her, the closer she comes.”
Richard sank into his seat, his shoulders hunched. Ruth saw a small shudder run through his body.
A blast of the steam whistle signalled their arrival at Abergavenny station. The train slowed to a halt, where they sat in silence, listening to the banging of doors, the slow puffing of steam, and the calling to and fro of porters and passengers. Then, at last, they heard the station master’s whistle, a slight bumping of carriages, and a billowing of smoke, as the train pulled away again and out into the countryside.
“I am going to write to the school board, Ruth. At least we can find out how Eira Probert came to teach at Garth Hill.”
“Will they be able to tell you, after all this time? John was going to write at the time, you know. But he never did. If only he had.”
“I would expect there to be some records.”
“And I shall write again to my sister in Carmarthen. Perhaps there will be records there, too. But I can’t tell her why I want to know. She’ll be suspicious, but she’s a good woman and will do what I ask.” She had already written to Mary Anne but not yet posted the letter. Now she would write a new letter instead.
“But, Richard, we must be careful. Nothing to arouse…”
“I understand, Ruth. I really do.”
* * *
Arriving home, Ruth said nothing to her family. She took off her bonnet and coat as quietly as possible and went to sit at the back of the sitting room. Maud brought her a cup of tea an hour later. She still hadn’t spoken.
“You had an interesting day, mother?” Ruth didn’t miss the disapproval.
“Thank you, Maud. Yes, I did. It was very… illuminating.” She smiled at her daughter as she lowered her teacup. “You know, Maud, I never thought of you as second best.”
Maud stiffened. She made as if to say something, then changed her mind. She gave her mother a brief, half smile, then walked away.
Too late, I should have told her a long time ago. Ruth thought. She turned back to the window.
The following day Ruth wrote to her sister. She took her time over the letter, trying to make sure that she appeared more interested in the story than in the outcome. She knew that Mary Anne wouldn’t be fooled, but hoped that she would agree to follow up the request.
At chapel on Sunday, Richard told her that he had written to the former clerk of the school board, an old man now, living in Cardiff. So, there was nothing for them to do but wait. They had, by unspoken agreement, not discussed the visit to Mrs Pugh, keeping private their ominous, fearful thoughts.
The reply arrived quicker than either of them expected. On Thursday morning, Richard arrived unannounced. Maud let him in and showed him to the parlour. He had news.
“Ruth, I have to tell you that Gwen Ellis died last night.” She sighed and ran her hands along the arms of the chair.
“I know it was expected, but still it’s a shock. Gwen was one of the first people I met when John and I arrived here. And she was kind. A lovely, caring woman. And our lives became so bound together,” Richard looked like he had more to say.
“Is there something else, Richard?”
“I received a letter from Thomas Jenkins in Cardiff this morning, the retired clerk to whom I wrote. I’ve come straight here.”
Ruth put her hands on her knees to stop their trembling, and composed her face.
“Shall I read out the letter?”
“Yes, Richard.”
“Dear Mr. Robinson,
So wonderful to hear from you after such a long time and my thanks for your kind enquiries after my health. I am a little weaker than when we last met, but still I manage to walk out each day. My daughter and her family are very good and look after me well.
You enquiry surprised me, I must say. Despite my no longer retaining the actual correspondence, I remember the case well. Your mother had suddenly become ill, causing you to leave the district unexpectedly, at the same time as the then incumbent schoolmaster, Mr. Parsons, also having lost his mother and being required to leave to attend his family. It was this coincidence that caused me to remember the particulars.
I must assume that you have forgotten, that it was you who wrote to me, Richard, to ask the Board to take Miss Probert. You gave excellent references and assured the Board of her good faith. The letter was written in your own hand, in December 1882.
Six months later you wrote again to say that Miss Probert would be leaving unexpectedly and that Mr. Parsons was able to return.
Assuring you of my best wishes and willingness to serve your interests at all times.
Thos. Jenkins.”
As he read the letter his voice reduced to a whisper. He looked up at Ruth, anguished.
Sixty Six
June 2015
The ornately carved double doors at the entrance to Knyghton House drew back and Maggie, A
lice, and the rest of the waiting group filed into the reception hall for the Old Girls Tour. Including Maggie and Alice, there were only twelve, which was disappointing, and when they introduced themselves there was no-one that Maggie knew. Most were a couple of years older or younger. Still, she decided, it wouldn’t detract from the tour. And she needed a distraction, following a restless night after Zelah’s news.
During the guide’s welcome, Maggie craned her neck to see beyond the reception hall. The glimpse that she got through to the rooms on either side, told her that much had changed since she was last there.
The guide was well informed about the time that the house had been a school. Now, by way of introduction, he gave a history of the building from its beginnings in the late fourteenth century, through to the 1950s when the house had been handed over to the religious order, who had turned it into a boarding school.
Maggie was fascinated and whispered to Alice, “I never knew any of this stuff. We never learned the history when we were here.”
“That’s really stupid,” Alice whispered back.
“That’s just how it was,” Maggie replied.
As they moved from room to magnificent room, each now restored to how it would have looked before the turn of the ninteenth century, Maggie and her companions marvelled at the beauty of it all and chit-chatted amiably about their memories of what they had done in each room when they’d been there. They passed through what had been the assembly hall, now the music room, and Maggie’s third-year form room, now covered from ceiling to floor in gilt and decorated with paintings.
“I remember this was done when it became our form room. It was restored back to how it had been in the nineteenth century. We never put a finger on the gilt,” she remarked to Alice. “Amazing control for thirteen-year-olds. But the head would have expelled us without a second thought if anything had been damaged.”
Alice was fascinated, asking Maggie what else she remembered and laughing at her mother’s memories of rigid lessons, a strict uniform that included a straw boater in summer, and absolutely no running anywhere, anytime.
“We weren’t allowed to put so much as a finger on this panelling either,” Maggie explained as they walked along the first-floor, dark oak panelled corridor, “on pain of death and lots of detention.”
“What sort of detention did you get in those days?”
“No idea, I never got one.”
Alice stared at her in amazement. “Never? Not a single one?” Maggie responded with a quizzical look.
On the first floor they reached a door that led to the servants’ stairs, which Maggie identified as the original entrance to the house for the schoolgirls, up from cloakroom at ground floor level.
“But I only ever got to this level,” she explained. “We came up from the cloakrooms then we went off to classrooms on this level. But the boarders lived upstairs.” She pointed to where the uncarpeted wooden staircase wound up to a higher floor and laughed. “I never got up there, not once in seven years. So, this is the highlight of the tour for me, to find out what’s at the top of those stairs!”
The group followed the guide up the rickety, uneven staircase, which turned a corner for the last three steps into a corridor with a low sloping ceiling. Maggie could see many doors leading off the corridor.
“These are the rooms used by the boarders at the school,” the guide informed them. “Did any of you board here?” No-one had. “Of course, before that, they were the servants’ quarters. They shared rooms and you’ll see that they didn’t have much space. We’ve arranged two of them as they would have been around 1900 and kept a few as the boarders would have known them. Follow me.”
He led them into a sparsely furnished servants’ bedroom, explaining who would have lived there, then along the corridor to a ninety-degree turn into a further corridor, mirroring the family bedrooms below. At the end of the corridor he stopped. The rooms that hugged the corner were barred by iron grille gates, one of which was open.
“We usually keep this area closed, but this morning our archivists are here. Perhaps you’d like to meet them. They’re always interested in finding out anything about the history of the house.”
They filed through the prison-like gates into a large corner room that was filled with desks, hundreds of files and random piles of paper. The walls were covered with documents and newspaper cuttings. Two men stood at desks in the room. One looked up and smiled as they came in. The other, a tall, thin man with short, wavy dark hair, remained bent over a pile of papers next to the window that he picked through with white cotton gloves.
“Let me introduce our archivists, Ted Morgan,” smiling Ted nodded to them again, “and Nick Howell.” The tall man glanced up, blushed, attempted a smile, thought better of it, and returned to his pile of papers.
“So, you’re our first group of old girls, not that you are old, of course… you know what I mean!” Ted beamed. “Downstairs, when you’re done touring, we’ve got some plans of the house for you. We’d like you to tell us everything you can about how it was back then.”
Members of the group began to chat again about schooldays but Maggie noticed that pinned to a noticeboard on the wall next to Nick Howell was a photocopy of an old newspaper headline, with a picture of the PS Waverley and an announcement of its voyages across the Channel. And there was a family history chart. She walked straight across to it.
“I went on that recently,” she said. The man grunted, but didn’t look up. Maggie could see that he was drafting a notice for a forthcoming tour, part of the headline of which was “Family History”.
“Are you organising something with a family history theme?” she asked. Another grunt. “If so, I’d be very interested. I see that you’re researching. Is that a local family?”
“Yes.”
Maggie walked forwards and checked the chart close up.
“There’s something familiar here, but I can’t think what it is.”
“Anything would be helpful.” His tone had taken on an interest and at last he look directly at her. Maggie saw that his eyes were very blue.
“I’m not sure. Let me think. I see you have the name ‘Fitzgerald’ pencilled in next to the head of the line. Is that an Irish family?”
“Yes,” he replied. “A family that came over from Ireland in the 1860s. Do you know them?”
“One of my friends is a Fitzgerald, by marriage. I know that her husband’s family came over from Ireland.”
“Perhaps we can talk,” he said with a smile that made Maggie think he was probably younger than he had first looked. “Are you staying on downstairs to fill in the maps?”
“Yes,” she smiled back. “I thought I would.”
“I’ll meet you there, then.” He turned back to his copywriting.
The tour reached its finale in the housekeeper’s sitting room, then followed the guide into the oldest part of the building, down three steps into the original medieval banqueting hall. Tea and cakes had been laid out for them on a long trestle table next to the tall, small-paned windows that faced out to the enclosed courtyard.
“It’s cold in here,” Alice whispered to Maggie. “How can it be so shivery in summer?”
“It’s below the level of the rest of the house because it’s so old,” Maggie replied. “The walls are several feet thick. I don’t think it was ever warm in here.”
“This was the servants’ dining hall and I understand that the tradition was kept up at the school, and this was your lunch room,” the guide said. “Now, please help yourself to refreshments and take a clipboard and pen. We need your help!”
Maggie and Alice helped themselves to a cup of tea and a cake each and had just sat down at the long table when Nick Howell, still wearing his white gloves, arrived in the doorway. He glanced furtively around, and walked down the length of the hall, shoulders hunched, staring at the floor. Maggie thought she ought to call his attention, but he came straight to them, sat down next to them and launched into a story, withou
t preamble, in a low voice.
“A couple of months ago I was contacted by a local man, name of Alan Kerr, who’d been doing some research around his family. He’d found out that his great-grandmother was housekeeper here. Her name was Esme Hughes. But there are some parts of her story that he thinks don’t quite add up.” He looked at Maggie. “She appeared here in May 1883, aged twelve, to live with her aunt, who was housekeeper at the time, a Mrs Moira Davies.”
“What’s this got to do with me?” Maggie asked.
“Well, when the girl arrived she was very ill, almost dead. A woman called Honora Fitzgerald saved her life.”
“Aah. That’s interesting. So, who was this Honora Fitzgerald?”
“She was a seamstress.”
“Yes, she was. So how did she come to save someone’s life?”
He glanced quizzically at her, but didn’t probe into her comment. “According to the diary of Mrs Davies, which we have in our archives, Honora Fitzgerald was an excellent herbalist healer and provided remedies that saved the child.”
“That’s a great story,” Maggie responded, with no expression in her voice and a very straight face. “But by herbalist healer, I think you mean ‘witch’?”
He looked at her, perplexed. “The Kerrs have been looking for any link to their ancestor. Maybe your friend is related?”
“No, I don’t think so. Do you know any more about the girl, and why she almost died?”
“Her name was Esme Peach, before she married one of the footmen, Alan Hughes. How do you know your friend isn’t related?”
Maggie had gone very still. She ignored his question. “So, Esme Peach is your mystery. I’ve got one of those in my family. I’m trying to find a girl who disappeared in or around May 1883. She was ten. That’s a coincidence, isn’t it?” She paused. “But I’m coming across those thick and fast. So much so, that nothing surprises me any more. Not even this. Which should. But doesn’t.”
“What happened to your girl?” Nick looked slightly alarmed now.
“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Maggie replied. “There was a suggestion that she went to Weston-super-Mare, and her father went to view a body that was found there, but it wasn’t her.” She paused. “You’re giving me a funny look.”
