The Widow's Confession (7 page)

‘I did not expect to see something like this crucifix here,’ Delphine said, trying to deflect any questions about their plans or background. The piece she gestured to was wood, the
carving naïve, and more brutal than any of the other furnishings in the church.

‘I am told it was made by a local man, from timber from a shipwreck,’ said Mr Steele. ‘But I don’t know whether to believe that. It has a certain power,
though.’

‘The local people must feel in need of protection,’ said Julia suddenly. ‘The sea can be cruel, as we have discovered this week.’

‘Oh, let us not speak of disagreeable things!’ said Mrs Quillian, in a brusque tone which made the phrase sound like a reprimand. ‘I am afraid that is my rule: we must speak of
summer warmth and sunlight only. There are many interesting diversions in this part of the world. I always arrange excursions during my stay in Broadstairs – I am quite established here, you
know – and I hope I may rely on you both, such interesting ladies as you are, to attend at least some of them?’

Delphine felt Julia’s eyes on her. In all of their travels they had made every effort to remain friendless. It had not been difficult – but this old woman, with her wrinkled face and
the Georgian jolliness which seemed thirty years out of date, seemed suddenly to have insinuated herself into their company.

‘I am sure we can attend at least one,’ said Delphine. ‘We are at Victory Cottage, if you wish to call.’

Mrs Quillian seemed pleased with this; goodbyes were said, and they moved apart. Julia tucked her hand in the crook of Delphine’s arm and steered her swiftly towards the door.

‘What on earth were you thinking of?’ she said in a severe whisper.

The vicar was conversing in an animated way with an elderly couple. Delphine was glad to be able to leave without speaking to him. She did not want to have to face down his disapproval of her,
nor be troubled by trying to decipher its source. On the church steps they passed Martha and her family, who were evidently arguing about dinner. Martha’s family were all tall and stocky,
like her, so that they made others look stunted; and Martha, dressed in her Sunday best, looked splendid, a lavender ribbon in her bonnet, her face relaxed and bright with pleasure.

As Delphine and Julia passed the group, a small child, who was evidently one of their number, slipped away in parallel. She was about seven years of age, dressed in a dark blue dress and a white
apron, and holding her straw bonnet in her hand.

‘Martha’s niece,’ said Julia. ‘They seem to adore her. She did not wish to go to Sunday school today, so came with the family.’

As she spoke, the little girl descended the steps in front of them and seemed about to cross the street, transfixed by the sight of an unruly gull that was pecking at a piece of rubbish. As she
came near, it stopped, and regarded her with its angry, yellow gaze.

Delphine glanced back towards the church; none of Martha’s family were watching. ‘Wait there,’ she said, running down the steps and taking the child’s arm. ‘Wait
for your family.’ The little girl turned and stared at her, round-eyed, as though she didn’t know what to do next.

‘Sarah! What have you been doing?’ It was Martha, looking more flushed than usual as she came quickly out of the church and down to the roadside. Her family filtered out onto the
steps and stood there, awkwardly gathered as though grouped together ready for a daguerreotype to be taken, their faces set. Delphine felt their eyes on her: curious, and not without hostility.

‘Sorry, madam,’ said Martha, taking the little girl’s hand. ‘She is so very particular about going here and there on her own, a little like me.’ She swallowed hard.
‘She is my sister’s girl, and my sister is ill, very often. Sarah can be a little wild.’

‘I was not thinking that,’ Delphine said. ‘I simply did not wish her to wander into the street and be crushed by something. I know from experience that the carts and horses
come round that turn at a lick sometimes.’

‘Yes, they do,’ said Martha. Then, gravely, ‘Did you hear that, Sarah? Did you hear what the lady is saying? Does it remind you of anything, Sarah? It’s what we say to
you, all the time, isn’t it? You must not wander off. It is not safe.’ There was a throb in her voice which surprised Delphine.

Sarah said nothing, clearly feeling that her words would have no bearing here; she merely nodded.

Martha curtseyed and said goodbye, and Julia came down the steps to Delphine. As Martha led Sarah away, they heard the little girl’s piping voice. ‘I am quick,’ she said.
‘I could have got out of the way of any hoss. That’s not why you always make such a fuss.’

Now I write of that sore spot, deep in the cleft of my heart. Touching on it shoots pain through every limb and every faculty. So I must write of it in a sideways way. I
cannot face it head on; and I cannot show my enemy all my cards at once.

Forgive me, I should not call you my enemy – do not put the letter down at the sight of those words. You are the most beloved of foes, forcing me to face the past and relive what has
caused us both such pain. I both love you and hate you for causing me to do this; if I could become your wife, without doing it, I would. But I fear if I did so, I would only be wrapping my wounds
in so many cloths, and they would not heal, kept from the light and air.

Shall I tell you of Mr Theo Hallam? The first evening in Broadstairs, when I walked late into evening prayer and my eyes met his – I knew there would be something between us. The
following Sunday, I felt relieved when I could escape speaking to him at the church door. That voice of his – as he sang the psalm – changed everything. I loved that voice, and feared
it, as I feared anything that had power over me.

It was a strange thing; I felt both drawn to him, and repelled by him, and when I came to know him, I could sense he felt the same. I have heard talk of magnetic fields; I have heard of
repulsion and attraction, and we were – it seemed – unnatural: one moment drawn together, one moment repelling each other; one meeting brought coldness and the next, heat. I did not
know why – not then.

‘There are no marks of violence on the girl’s body,’ said Dr Crisp. ‘None whatsoever. And you yourself heard – she was often one to go off
somewhere, dreaming. If she was cut off by the tide and could not escape, then it is a tragedy, but not a crime. Often, drownings are not even reported; the bodies are simply buried.’

The Red Lion was emptying out, but Edmund could not find the inclination to leave. He sat at the table and saw Dr Crisp check his pocket-watch. The inquest had been brief; it had hardly been
worth the coroner attending, he thought, and the coroner had made it clear that normally one would not have been held. It seemed that Mr Benedict had sent him several letters, and pestered the
parish constable, so it had happened under duress.

Edmund had spoken of finding the body, as had Benedict’s servant; it had not been thought worthwhile to call the others who had been at the beach. They wished to trouble the sea-bathers as
little as possible, Crisp said. No medical witnesses had been called; there would be no post-mortem. Edmund understood the practical reasons. The coroner would have to pay for the expense of it,
and it was likely the justices at the next quarter session would not refund him if they found insufficient reason to do so – which they often did.

‘She would have to have had her skull caved in and the murderer’s name written on her in blood for it to be worth going to the length of a post-mortem,’ said Crisp. ‘I,
and the coroner, cannot go chasing after doubtful cases; I am not encouraged to do so. There must be certainty.’ He lowered his voice. ‘The coroner is hale and hearty enough, but he
doesn’t wish to be called to Broadstairs for a drowning at a rate of only nine pence per mile. Mr Benedict has made no friends by causing such trouble, and he didn’t even bother to come
here tonight.’

‘I accept all that you say,’ said Edmund wearily. He did not wish to argue, pointlessly, and he knew the case seemed to be a simple one. However, he could not help the unease he felt
at the verdict of Natural Death.

‘Still, the strain shows on your face,’ said Crisp. ‘I am grieved that you, as an outsider, have been involved in this matter. You must believe me when I say that the constable
questioned the young man most thoroughly.’

It had emerged that the victim was a girl from London who had come to Broadstairs to be apprenticed as a servant. She was young, but old enough that she had a local man interested in her: Davy
Holland, eighteen, and bad-tempered, had quarrelled with her when she said she wished to take up a post as a servant at Northdown House. On being questioned, he had broken down and sobbed that he
had not hurt her; he had witnesses to vouch for his whereabouts that evening and the morning after.

She had gone wandering – gone dreaming, they thought. Perhaps she had been taken ill, or fainted. ‘We all know how emotional and excessive young women can be,’ the coroner had
said, and there were nods and murmurs of approval which caused Edmund to down his drink even more quickly. It was agreed: the tide had cut her off, she had drowned, and her body had been carried
round to Main Bay by the sea.

It was past ten o’clock when Edmund heard Theo come in from attending an invalid’s bedside. The parson went upstairs and changed into fresh clothes before he
appeared, perfectly neat and his hair oiled, in the drawing room. Edmund had been aware of Martha speaking in the passageway, and when he looked up he saw concern in his host’s eyes. The
lamplight gave his pale blue eyes a shimmer and warmth that Edmund did not think of when he remembered him; it made him like the boy better.

‘My dear Mr Steele, is all well?’ said Theo. ‘I wish I had disobeyed you and come to the inquest. Martha says she was quite worried about you.’

Martha, who was standing behind him, mumbled something. Edmund just caught the words ‘many hours’, before she gave a brisk nod and went off to the kitchen.

‘I am perfectly well, thank you, but I was shaken by the process,’ said Edmund, rising, until Theo took the seat opposite him and he sank down again, amazed at how weak his legs
felt. ‘The girl was called Amy Phelps. She had been in Broadstairs for a couple of weeks.’

‘I have not heard of her,’ said Theo.

‘She was a Nonconformist, I understand – not one of your flock,’ said Edmund. ‘She was fourteen, but was being courted by one of the young mariners. He had a bad temper
and they quarrelled the day before she was found. There are no marks of violence upon her, and yet I am uncomfortable with the idea that she simply got cut off by the tide, and drowned.’

‘It does happen,’ said Theo. ‘Even those that live by the sea may be misled, and trust it when it should be guarded against.’

‘I cannot get the child’s face out of my mind,’ said Edmund. ‘Her swain was there. He sobbed and said he wished he had made her his wife.’

Silence fell between them. He heard the soft clattering of Martha, making the kitchen her own.

‘How terrible.’ Even in the softness of lamp and firelight, Theo looked pale and anguished; his right hand, formed in a fist, pressed against his lips, and he brought it away only to
speak. ‘It seems he had good intentions towards the girl.’

Edmund shook his head. ‘He seemed hot-headed and vindictive to me, for all of his tears.’

‘Marriage,’ said Theo, ‘is a blessed state, ordained by God. It is at least to his credit that he sought to cool his ardour in the righteous protection of marriage.’

‘My father would say that marriage was a furnace: capable of forging bonds, but also of destroying both with its heat.’ Edmund wished he could speak with more authority on it. He was
also aware that his father would never have envisaged his words being shared with a clergyman, but he was out of sorts. Another case had occurred to him. ‘I remember a boy who worked for me
once. He married a girl and I thought it would be the making of him. But how they fought! They fought until they parted. I have seen such unhappiness. It has served as a warning to me.’ He
thought of Mrs Craven – of her laughter, a little forced. ‘Perhaps too much of a warning,’ he said. ‘I wonder now, if I should have married when the chance presented itself.
I was wary of being unhappy. I still am.’

‘The only salve for an unhappy marriage is prayer,’ said Theo. ‘Though I accept it is difficult. A difference in temper may seem small at a distance, but the reality of life
with someone who is ill-suited to one can be harsh; a piece of grit in the eye felt every morning on waking.’ There was a slight tremble in his voice which made Edmund examine him more
closely. Theo caught his eye and lifted his chin, regaining his composure. ‘I see it, sometimes, in my work,’ he said. ‘It is my role, to remind persons of the mutual comfort
which God urges upon us.’

‘I have been, perhaps, too careful,’ said Edmund. ‘But I have never felt myself prepared for marriage. So often I have worshipped a face, with no knowledge of the heart; and I
pity the women too. They are encouraged to be weak, silly creatures these days.’ He passed a hand over his eyes. ‘This Amy Phelps was just a child. She should not have had to worry
about the ardour of a boatman, yet it seems she encouraged him. Still – we will not speak of it any more. I will not cloud your evening with my own sorrows. How is your patient?’

‘Coming through the worst, I am glad to report. Ah, Martha, thank you. You read my mind.’ Martha handed them each a glass of red wine, then stomped back to the kitchen. Theo leaned
forwards. ‘It will just be a chop each again, I’m afraid,’ he murmured. ‘I hope you do not mind our simple fare. Poor Martha is overstretched in her duties.’ They
raised their glasses.

‘In this sleepy place, I’m sure you have no truck with suspicious deaths,’ said Edmund.

Theo took a large gulp of wine. ‘Wherever there is human life, there is mayhem. But you are right – our losses are often made by the sea, by accident and illness, or occasionally by
melancholy, particularly in the winter months. Some years before I came here there was a mysterious case, though. You may have seen Martha’s sister, Anna, with her at church? She was once the
char for the cottages in Nelson Place, but she is often unwell, and poor Martha runs herself ragged trying to do everything rather than lose the income.’