Daughter of Deceit (52 page)

“Not when she accused one of the members of the household of murder?”

“No, sir.”

“Did it not seem a serious charge to make?”

“With anyone else … but not with Mabel. Nothing was serious with Mabel, sir.”

“Will you explain?”

“Well, she was a ha’p’orth short.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Gertie looked faintly superior at such a profession of ignorance.

“She wasn’t all there,” she explained patiently. “She fancied this and that.”

“You mean that what she said was not to be trusted?”

“Well, you wouldn’t believe her, would you? She’d say the maddest things. Nobody took any notice of what she said.”

“So when you were told that your master had murdered your mistress, what was your reaction?”

“I think I said: ‘Oh, did he?’ “

“And you left it at that?”

“Well, you went along with Mabel, didn’t you? You didn’t take any notice of what she said. She told us she was a lady … her father was some lord or other. Next day he was some king who’d been turned off his throne. None of it made sense.”

“I see. So you did not believe she had heard Mrs. Claverham say those words?”

“No, sir. I knew she didn’t. I’m not barmy. It was only because there was all this chat about Mrs. Claverham taking that dose … and she starts dreaming.”

“You may go.”

I sat there in trepidation. The court was tense. I glanced at Roderick. He was very pale. Lady Constance was clenching and unclenching her hands in great agitation.

Mabel was brought back.

“Mabel. When did you hear Mrs. Claverham say she would not
go?’

Mabel wrinkled her brows.

“Try to think. Was it the day she died … the day before … or sometime during the week?”

Mabel was clearly distressed.

“Was it one day … two days … three days … five days before she died?”

Mabel hesitated and stammered: “It was five days that she said …”

“What? Five days?”

“Yes,” said Mabel. “That’s it.”

“She was talking to Mr. Claverham, was she?”

“Yes, he wanted to get rid of her so that …”

“But Mr. Claverham was in Scotland five days before she died. So she could not have been talking to him, could she?”

“She was. I heard her.”

“Tell us … who is your father?”

A smile crossed her face. “He is a prince,” she said.

“So you are a princess?”

“Oh yes, sir.”

“Your name is Mabel.”

“It was given to me when they took me away.”

“Who took you away?”

“It was robbers. They kidnapped me.”

“And you were a princess … from Buckingham Palace?”

There was a faint titter throughout the court. I was breathing more freely. Mabel was proving herself to be deranged.

“Yes,” she said. “That’s right.”

“Would you be Princess Victoria … Marie Louise … Beatrice?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

Poor Mabel! And but for Gertie, she might have been taken seriously. Now no one could doubt that Mabel’s evidence was worthless.

Lady Constance came next.

Had she noticed any suicidal tendencies in her daughter-in-law?

“When she was in acute pain, I think she might have been
tempted to kill herself,” said Lady Constance. “I don’t think there was anything unusual about that. She suffered intense pain.”

“Had she ever talked to you of taking her life?”

“Oh no. She would not talk to me of that.”

“She was feeling better at the time. There was hope of a cure.”

“Yes. She was feeling hopeful.”

“It seems hardly likely that she would have taken her life at such a time.”

“Hardly likely,” agreed Lady Constance.

“But before she heard this, you think she might have been tempted to do so?”

“She might … with years of pain stretching out before her. Anyone might have considered it.”

“But in the more hopeful circumstances, most people would be prepared to go on enduring it for a little while longer.”

“I think that is so.”

“You lived under the same roof. She was your daughter-in-law. You must have known her well.”

“I knew her.”

“Do you think she was the sort of person to take her own life?”

“Not unless …”

“Please go on.”

“There was a mistake.”

“What sort of mistake?”

“There was an occasion when I was with her. It must have been about three months ago. She was in pain and had taken two pills. She drank the water containing two dissolved pills and put the glass back on the top of the cabinet. Then she lay back. I thought I should stay with her until the pain subsided and she slept, which she usually did after taking the pills. The pain seemed to be particularly acute and the pills took a few minutes to work. She turned to the cabinet and poured out water and had dropped two pills into the glass before I realized she intended to take them. I cried out: ‘You have just had two!’ If I had not been there she would have taken the others and killed herself then. I think this may have been what she did on the day she died.”

It was clear that Lady Constance’s evidence was making a profound impression on the court.

“Did you mention this incident to anyone?”

“No. I thought it would worry my son and my husband.”

“Did you think it was unsafe to leave the pills there where Mrs. Claverham could reach them so easily?”

“I did consider that, but since she needed the pills immediately and might not be able to ring the bell for a servant to get them for her … and there might not be a servant in the kitchen at that time to hear the bell, I thought it better to leave things as they were.”

“So you decided not to do anything about it, and the pills were left in the cabinet, and there was always a glass and jug of water ready for use?”

“I was wrong perhaps. But I understood that it was very necessary for her to take the pills immediately the pain started. I knew that if they were not available, my daughter-in-law would be thrown into a panic … which could, of course, bring on the pain.”

“Thank you, Lady Constance.”

Dr. Doughty was recalled.

“How long did it take for the pills to dissolve?” they wanted to know.

“A matter of seconds.”

“How long did it take before they had an effect?”

“It could vary.”

“On the pain?”

“On that and other things. The state of the patient’s health at the time. The mental state …”

“And the effect of the pills could have produced drowsiness … forgetfulness?”

“Indeed it could.”

“So Mrs. Claverham could possible have taken two pills, and then another two in, say, five minutes?”

“That is possible.”

“And perhaps in her agitation let fall more than two into the water?”

“That is also possible.”

“Thank you, Dr. Doughty.”

We waited in trepidation. Marie-Christine had taken my hand and was holding it firmly. I knew what was in our minds. What would the verdict be? Murder against some person or persons unknown? Roderick? Myself?

How much attention had been paid to Mabel’s account?

She had been discredited, but what impression had her words left behind? Lady Constance’s words had had a great effect, and she had spoken in such a precise, authoritative manner—in great contrast to Mabel. I had felt the mood of the court changing as she spoke. I was sickened by the thought of what might be awaiting us. I thought of all the probing questions … the answers which could seem damaging. I thought of the danger to Roderick … and us all.

I could not help remembering that day when Lisa Fennell had fallen under my mother’s carriage, when she had forced her way into our lives. And now she was dead, and still threatening, from the grave.

When the relief came it was overpowering. Lady Constance’s evidence had carried great weight. Mabel’s had been dismissed.

The verdict of the coroner’s court was Accidental Death.

Confession

It is six years since that day in
the courtroom, but it still comes back to me, and I will find myself shuddering with fear. There has been so much happiness in these last years, but it has not been completely unclouded.

Over us all at Leverson has hung the shadow of doubt. There have been times in the night when I have awakened suddenly to find myself back in the past. I will cry out. Roderick comforts me. He does not need to ask what haunts me. He will say: “It is over, my darling. It is finished. We have to forget.”

How did it happen? I ask myself. How did she die? Who put those pills into the glass? Was it Lisa herself? I cannot accept that, however much I try.

I cling to Roderick. He is there … safe … beside me. I am comforted, but I cannot stop my thoughts.

I say to myself: It must have been Lisa … not wittingly, of course. It must have been as Lady Constance had suggested in her evidence, which had been a turning point. She had spoken with such conviction.

The verdict had been a blessing to us all, who had been under the cloud of suspicion. It was an end to the matter … no, not an end, as we learned. But there would be no more probing, no more
awkward questions asked. It was a kind of peace, punctured by our consciences. We had wanted her to go … and she had.

We had come out of that courtroom intoxicated with relief. But the doubts remained, and they had been with us these six years.

One year after that verdict, Roderick and I had married. What had happened had had its effect on us all. Marie-Christine had been overjoyed, but she seemed to brood now and then, and there were secrets in her eyes. She could no longer be called a child. There was a shadow over her as with us all.

Roderick and I have a son and a daughter. Roger is four years old, Catherine nearly three. They are beautiful children, and when I watch them playing in the gardens or riding round the paddock on their ponies, I am almost content.

Then I go into the house and pass that room which had been Lisa’s. There is no visible trace of her there … but somehow she remains.

My father visits us now and then. He is very proud of his grandchildren, and he has often told me what a happy day it was for him when I came looking for him. He gets on very well with Charlie, and I think they often talk of my mother.

I was deeply touched when he gave me the statue of the Dancing Maiden. He wanted me to have it, he told me. It was his dearest possession. I was loth to take it from him, but he insisted. “I used to feel that she was there when I looked at it,” he told me. “It has been a great comfort to me. But now I have my daughter … and grandchildren. And it is fitting that you should have it.”

It stands in my room. I can see my mother when I look at it. He has caught some likeness … something which is indefinably her. I fancy when I look at it that she is near, smiling, well pleased because I have come through my troubles to the husband I love … and my children.

Lady Constance and I are the best of friends. Her great joy is in her grandchildren. Her nature is not naturally a warm one but occasionally the deep affection she has for me overflows and is apparent; and there is no doubt of her love for the children.

When at length Leverson Manor became our home, Marie-Christine was very contented.

Her interest in archaeology became a passion. At this time she is very friendly with a young archaeologist whom she met through Fiona and Jack. I believe they may soon become engaged.

But the memory of Lisa lingers on, even with Marie-Christine. I wonder if it will always be so. Everyone in the house is aware of it. I know this through Gertie.

A little while ago I had a revealing talk with her. She said: “I was worried when silly Mabel started talking in front of all those people.”