The Judge's Daughter (26 page)

Denis arrived home with Fred in tow and began to make cocoa. Pop was enthusing about his Wendy houses while Denis was quieter than usual. He left the older man to heat milk while he sat with
Agnes. When he asked why she had been sitting in the dark, she replied, ‘Helen Spencer lives in darkness, love. She thinks she’s mad, but I think she isn’t.’

‘When did you pass doctor exams, sweetheart?’

She shrugged. ‘She’s not mad, Denis. I need to do something and I’ll start with Kate.’

‘You what?’

‘There has to be somebody still alive who knew the judge and his first wife. They had more servants then. Whatever’s in her head wants finding. Until she can get it out, she’ll
not cope. While she’s not coping, she’ll give her dad loads of excuses to lock her up. She’ll not get better till she gets to the bottom of whatever it is.’

Denis swallowed. ‘He won’t go that far, will he? Locking her up, I mean. Madness in the family would reflect on him.’

But Agnes suspected that Judge Spencer would go to any lengths to rid himself of his difficult daughter. It would be relatively easy to lie, to say that Helen had gone abroad for a rest cure or
was on an extended holiday in Europe. ‘Judge Spencer will find a way to get what he wants. You know that, Denis.’

Fred entered. ‘Nowt wrong with that lass except for the man who fathered her. She’s nowhere near mad. I know what happened at the wedding and at the house party – I’m not
as deaf or as daft as some folk want to believe. Helen Spencer’s a gradely lass. You do right, our Agnes. Find out what you can, but don’t get wore out. I don’t want owt happening
to that great-grandchild of mine.’

The back door rattled. Sighing, Agnes went into the kitchen. The miscreant had visited three times in one week, and Agnes was in several minds. ‘Stay sitting down, or you’ll be
knocked over,’ she ordered her menfolk before opening the door.

Louisa Spencer’s puppy, Oscar, shot in like a furry missile from a powerful cannon. He jumped first on Fred, then on Denis, before launching himself at the woman of the house. A
long-haired Alsatian, Oscar had a happy temperament and a bottomless appetite. He knew already that women meant food, so he concentrated on the female of this malleable species.

‘Going to be a big bugger,’ commented Fred after managing to save his cocoa. ‘Feet like dinner plates.’

Denis simply laughed. When he was working, the dog was a companion, following him from garden to garden, task to task. Unfortunately, the animal knew little of the differences between weeds and
legal residents of a garden, so Denis’s life had taken on a new interest.

‘Here.’ Agnes threw a bone and the dog pounced on it. He settled in front of an empty grate and began to gnaw.

‘He likes you,’ Fred told Agnes.

‘He likes her because she’s soft,’ Denis said. ‘He hates the judge. The feeling’s mutual – Judge Spencer would shoot the poor dog if he could get away with
it. Found a hair on his jacket on Tuesday. It had come off that tatty wig, I bet, but he insisted it was Oscar’s fault. As far as I can see, Oscar has no white hair.’

‘Animals have good taste,’ Fred declared. ‘No decent dog ever liked a bad human. Yon Oscar likely had the judge summed up in ten minutes flat.’ He took a sip of cocoa.
‘Hitler had dogs like that one,’ he mumbled sleepily.

‘Go home before you drop off,’ advised Denis. ‘Eva will be wondering where you are.’

Fred stood up, said his goodbyes and left the house.

Denis and Agnes stared at the dog. ‘He’ll have to go home,’ Agnes said. ‘If Louisa misses him, she might get upset.’

Denis found a length of rope and tied it to the puppy’s collar. ‘I’ll come,’ said Agnes. ‘It’s best if I exercise while I still can.’

They set off with dog and bone in the direction of Skirlaugh Rise. Oscar carried his meal proudly, wore the air of the triumphant hunter bringing back his kill. When they neared the house, the
dog stopped, placed his bone on the ground and growled deep in his throat. A plume of smoke rising from a small circle of red advertised the judge’s presence. He was having a final cigar
before bedtime. Denis urged the dog onward, but Oscar refused to move until his mistress’s husband had returned to the house.

‘Oscar really doesn’t like him, does he?’ whispered Agnes.

‘Hates the bloody sight of him, love. And he isn’t on his own. Come on, let’s get rid of Spencer’s latest victim.’ They put the pup in his kennel, tied the frayed
tether to a ring in the floor, then walked home.

‘We’re all living in her nightmare,’ said Denis when they were halfway between Rise and Fall.

Agnes gripped her husband’s arm. Sometimes, he was very wise. She was grateful for that.

Agnes Makepeace was exhausted to the core. Her waist was thickening and her patience was shrivelling at a similar pace. Summer continued into September, which wasn’t
right in Agnes’s book. Leaves had scarcely started to crisp and, apart from a slight nip in the air at dawn, the hot weather lingered. She spoke to Nuisance. ‘No more summers with you
attached, anyway. After a few more proddings by doctors and a bit of hard work on my part, you are out of there. You’d best look lively and get yourself a job in the pits, because
you’ve been hard work up to now. It’s payback time, mate.’

Had she bitten off more than she could chew? She had travelled the length and breadth of Skirlaugh Fall, which, though small, contained a couple of hundred people who might do well if gossip
should become an Olympic sport. She knew who had slept with whom, could now nominate at least three people who were ‘bad with their nerves’, was custodian of confidences involving
intricate surgical procedures performed on several men and women from here to the horizon. Oh, and there were a lot of folk suffering from piles. It had all been interesting, but not as productive
as she had hoped.

The questions relating to the Spencers had been hidden within conversation – or so she trusted. The judge was clever; if he believed that Agnes was working to help the daughter for whom he
had no love, repercussions might occur. Agnes had a husband and a baby to protect; should they become threatened, poor Helen would be on her own. Well, not quite on her own, but Louisa, too, was in
a position of compromise. Agnes answered her own question. ‘I have bitten off more than I can chew. Let’s hope I never have to swallow any of it. Bloody man.’

One last chance lay with a married couple named Longsight, who lived in the larger village of Harwood. They had worked for the Spencers many years ago, so they had become the final target. What
was Agnes seeking? She had no idea. Yet the feeling that Helen had suffered some kind of abuse in childhood remained strong. It had to be more than neglect. The neglect of a child was unforgivable,
but Helen’s unreachable memory was of one specific incident. The woman remembered well the occasions on which she had been deprived of space and company, could chatter away about days spent
in her bedroom, yet the nightmare continued and Agnes was here to discover the eye of the storm. Or perhaps not – the eye of a storm was quiet and relatively peaceful. Whatever it was that
made Helen so agitated was not in the eye – it was spinning around the edges in the company of a million particles of frantic dust. And the storm was no act of God; this was a tornado created
by a man who was used to being king in his own arena. Judge Zachary Spencer had probably wounded his only child so badly that she could not allow herself to remember the incident. That was mental
trauma, Agnes believed.

On the bus ride to Harwood, she wondered why she was doing this. Perhaps the discovery of the truth would injure Helen even further. Perhaps all this should be left to time and chance, because
it was no one’s business. Yet Helen was frail. It would do no harm for someone to be around when the memory came back. That someone should know as many of the facts as she could. That someone
was going to be Agnes.

Denis’s spine stiffened.

‘So, you’ve given up your job? How on earth will you manage with no library books to stamp?’ The judge’s voice crashed through an open window. ‘For God’s
sake, woman.’

Helen must have responded and the judge was quick to shout again. ‘Louisa doesn’t need you. If she required nursing, I’d hire somebody with nursing skills, not a woman who
knows how to catalogue the reference section or find a stupid romantic novel for some elderly spinster. What will you do all day? James Taylor has left Bolton after your ill-treatment of him, so
you won’t be wasting his time any longer. He should sue for slander, as should I.’

A door crashed home. Denis tried to relax, but fury made his muscles taut. Now that the silly business was over, Denis considered Helen to be a friend, and a friend of his wife, too. That
mean-minded and lily-livered Spencer needed his eye wiped, and Agnes was doing her best. There was something radically wrong in this household. Denis had begun to agree with Agnes that an event in
Helen’s childhood had shaped her and almost finished her. He shivered. Zachary Spencer was a fish cold enough to have perpetrated the worst of crimes; he was also sufficiently intelligent to
clean up after himself. A bad but clever man was a dangerous enemy.

Oscar arrived and began to claw at a flower bed. Denis grinned. While Louisa was still suffering the nausea experienced by Agnes for just a few weeks, the dog had sought refuge with him.
‘Leave the lobelia alone,’ Denis advised, ‘or I’ll clobber you with my rake.’ He wouldn’t, though. Unlike Judge Spencer, he was incapable of damaging other
people or animals.

Oscar fetched a stick and Denis threw it. Every job took twice as long these days, yet Denis would not have parted with the daft pup for all the tea in Asia. The dog returned, dropped his prize
and panted hopefully.

Helen arrived and took over the job of throwing.

‘Are you all right?’ Denis asked. ‘I heard.’

She shook her head. ‘I keep telling myself that he can’t hurt me any more, that I’m an adult and capable of answering back. Sometimes, I do answer back. Today I’m not up
to it.’ She fastened a lead to Oscar’s collar. ‘I’ll walk him,’ she said. ‘Otherwise, we’ll be throwing sticks and balls all day.’

Denis knew her probable destination. ‘Here’s my key. If Agnes is out, let yourself in and make a brew. There’s a bone in the kitchen for Oscar.’ He watched as she
stumbled away behind Oscar, who dictated the pace of mobility. ‘Find something, Agnes,’ he begged inwardly. Somebody had to help Miss Helen Spencer, and that somebody could not be a
member of her own family. Saddened, he returned to his weeding. The lobelia was safe. Were Helen and Agnes safe?

Agnes emerged almost unsatisfied from the Longsight house in Harwood. She could see the couple now, eyes darting away from her face, each looking at the other, a damped-down
terror weakening their voices. They knew something. The judge had been a fair but firm boss, there had never been any trouble, the first Mrs Spencer had been a nice, pretty sort of woman. Helen was
a difficult child sometimes, but she had improved with age. Yes, everyone had been sad when Mrs Spencer died; yes, Miss Helen had been upset for quite a long time and yes, there had been a big
funeral.

The last hope sat in Agnes’s handbag, a scrap of paper on which was written a name. This person was the one who had cared for Miss Helen during her early years. She was retired now and
lived in a Blackpool rest home. Blackpool. It might as well have been the moon, because the chances of Agnes’s getting to Blackpool were remote. She was pregnant, she suffered from the heat
and Denis had little time for day trips and no money to afford such luxuries.

On the way home, she called in on Pop and Eva. The latter was making tea for ‘them two’. ‘Them two’ were Fred Grimshaw and Albert Moores, who now held the grand position
of superannuated apprentice. Agnes carried mugs to the shed.

‘It’s not seasoned,’ Fred was yelling.

‘Course it is. I got it from Jackson’s Lumber and Jackson said it’s well seasoned. Shall I fetch salt and pepper then you can give it another go?’

Agnes grinned. Had Pop met his Waterloo? Oh, how she hoped he had.

‘Don’t talk so daft.’ Fred grabbed his tea. ‘Hello, love.’ Without pausing, he continued, ‘I know seasoned wood like I know the back of my hand. This
isn’t for a doll’s house – it’s for a kiddies’ play house. It’ll likely be out in all weathers.’

Albert also knew his wood and he said so.

‘My name has been built on things that don’t fall to bits,’ yelled Fred.

Agnes smiled. ‘But his first chimneys were crooked.’

Fred glared at his granddaughter. ‘That was deliberate,’ he insisted. ‘It was for that poem thingy – crooked man, crooked mile.’

‘Rubbish,’ she said sweetly.

Fred sank onto one of the work benches. ‘Nearest and dearest?’ he asked of no one in particular. ‘I know what I’m talking about, but I can’t get sense and I
can’t get good wood. Albert?’

‘What?’

‘Who’s the boss?’

‘You are, master.’

‘Then take that bloody wood back and get summat as’ll stand up to rain for a week or three. Then get down to the ironmongers in Bromley Cross and buy me a new drill – this one
couldn’t get through butter.’

‘Yes, master.’ Albert stalked out of the shed.

Agnes sat next to her grandfather. ‘Go easy on him, Pop. He’s a good man and a good worker.’

‘I know. Worth his weight in gold – and he can take a joke.’ He looked at her face. ‘You’re hot again. Any luck?’

She told him of the morning’s events.

‘Then you go to Blackpool.’

‘How? When?’

Fred tapped the side of his nose. ‘Leave all that to me,’ he said darkly. ‘I have ways of making things happen. Now, get you gone. Miss Spencer’s in your house with yon
daft dog. If you don’t shape, he’ll have eaten the sofa by the time you reach home.’

Agnes kissed him. ‘You’re a terrible man, but I love you.’

Eva arrived, a school bell in her hands. ‘Oh,’ she muttered.

‘What’s that for?’ Agnes pointed to the instrument.

‘It’s for the end of the round,’ replied Eva. ‘When they get too loud, I send them back to their corners for a rub down with a wet cloth. Without this here bell, the
authorities would be evacuating Skirlaugh Fall.’