The Judge's Daughter (27 page)

Agnes went home with the distinct feeling that there was more to Eva than met the eye. As there was already quite a lot of Eva, this new version promised to be a remarkable phenomenon.

Helen was dozing in a chair, while Oscar, in his element, was crunching bone to reach the marrow. As soon as he saw Agnes, he dropped his prize and went to greet her.

Helen woke to joyous yapping. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I don’t get much sleep these days.’ The truth was that she was afraid of sleeping, because sleep brought dreams
she could never piece together once she woke. ‘Shall I make tea?’

‘Yes, please.’ Agnes reunited puppy and bone. ‘Stay,’ she ordered, though she expected little or no obedience from the young Alsatian. He needed training, and his owner
was not well enough to spend time with him. She listened to sounds from the kitchen, the clatter of cup in saucer, the rattle of the spoon in the caddy, the decanting of milk from bottle to jug.
This was what Helen needed – the ordinary, everyday things in life.

‘Shall I pour?’ Helen asked when she returned with the tray.

‘Please. I’m hot.’

‘Where have you been?’

‘Oh – here and there – visiting, looking at shops.’

‘You bought nothing?’

‘No.’

‘I’m trying to train him to walk to heel.’ With a look of hopelessness on her face, Helen waved a hand at Oscar. ‘He’s going to be too big soon. We can’t have
a huge, frisky dog. Louisa loves him dearly, but he tires her and, like you, she is in no condition to be directing a determined self-guiding missile. He drags me from pillar to post.’

Oscar, tongue lolling, smiled at his womenfolk. They were talking about him and they wanted to slow him down, but the world was so exciting – all those sights and sounds, the wonderful
smells, the inbuilt knowledge that he was born to annoy smaller creatures. He wagged hopefully, depending on his charm. Soon he would chase rabbits again.

‘Any more dreams?’ Agnes kept her tone in everyday mode.

‘Yes, but I can’t catch them.’

‘Still no idea of what it might be?’

Helen shook her head. There was noise, a high-pitched sound followed by several crashes. After the crashes, she invariably woke and reached for pen and paper. But there was never anything to
write, because she could not grasp the centre of the dream.

‘Still writing?’ asked Agnes.

‘Yes. It seems to be a circular effort, since I appear to have begun in the middle. I suppose once I have written the middle, I should know the beginning.’

‘And the end?’

The end was like the dream, full of noise and fear. The end might come after the middle, or after the beginning – Helen wasn’t sure. ‘I thought I’d lived the dull life
until I started to write about school. I expect most authors’ early books lean towards personal experience. All of Austen’s did, and she had a life as narrow as the ribbons she applied
to her dresses when she needed something to look new. I think writing helps. Even if it’s never published, it will be out of me. It’s therapy.’

Agnes understood perfectly. For Helen, the writing was like going to confession or seeing a doctor. It was balm for the soul; it was also a search for truth, and Helen had to walk through a
minefield to reach even the edge of that commodity.

‘Like Austen, I write what I know. I didn’t realize how much I had absorbed, because I have always kept it to myself.’

‘You’re a people-watcher.’

‘Probably.’

Having said goodbye to Agnes, Helen left, the daft dog pulling her at considerable speed in the direction of Skirlaugh Rise. She tried to rein him in, failed, found herself chuckling as she was
dragged along the lane.

‘I am glad you have something to laugh about.’

Helen’s flesh seemed to crawl. She looked through a gap in the hedge, saw her father’s unwelcome sneer. ‘The dog is silly,’ she replied defensively.

‘It’ll have to go once the child’s born.’ He stared hard at her. What was she up to? Her attitudes ranged from the compliant to the argumentative with no visible warning
of any impending change.

‘I shall keep him in my apartment,’ she replied. Father would not get rid of Oscar. She would not allow that. The power she owned was connected to . . . it was connected to . . . To
what? The end of the book, the end of the dream? He was afraid of her. Why should he fear his own daughter?

‘Keep the damned thing away from me,’ he ordered before storming off in the direction of the house.

As soon as she was on home ground, Helen released Oscar and he dashed into the copse to annoy wildlife. She followed and leaned against the very tree behind which Glenys Timpson had concealed
herself. ‘Did I love Denis?’ she asked herself in a whisper. ‘Or was I merely imagining that I might have found someone who could take me away from here?’

Dappled light caressed the ground. A few leaves had followed the norm and were beginning to carpet the ground. It was a lazy day. She sat on damp moss, breathed the scent of earth, watched the
pup as he leapt insanely from tree to tree. He was dragging a bough through a gap, was growling and panting as he fought to move the heavy object.

The world changed. Something in the sound made by the large branch cut into her head like a warm knife through butter. She was elsewhere. There was not much light, but there was noise and
movement. Someone panted. Was that a scream? ‘Come away.’ The voice was female. There was not enough light. Backwards. She was pulled backwards into . . . Into the copse.

The dog, head leaning to the left, one ear cocked and the other remaining in Alsatian puppy mode, was panting in her face. His breath stank of marrowbone. ‘I was dragged backwards,’
she told him. ‘There wasn’t much light. Someone pulled me away from . . .’

Oscar grinned broadly before turning to display his huge find. He could not carry the whole piece home, so he began the business of stripping branches from the main stem. A happy woodsman, he
became absorbed in the task.

Where? When? Who had said the words? She remembered half-light, a hefty tug, dragging, that panting sound. Had she been pulled away from something? Was she the something that was dragged?
Quickly, she grabbed the dog and fastened lead to collar. She had to get home; there was the writing to be done.

Agnes picked up the receiver. ‘Hello?’

‘It’s me – Lucy. Your granddad wants me to drive you to Blackpool. Will this Sunday do? Denis doesn’t work Sundays, does he?’

‘Erm – not usually, no.’ Agnes feared that Lucy would not be happy if she knew the reason for the trip. ‘I have to visit a nursing home,’ she said.

‘Oh?’

‘I may have a lead on something I’ve been researching.’

There followed a short silence before Lucy spoke again. ‘Mags tells me you’ve been trying to find out about Helen Spencer’s childhood. May I ask why?’

‘You can ask, but I don’t know the answer.’

A long sigh preceded the words, ‘Can’t she do her own research?’

‘No. She can’t.’

‘Why?’

How to explain that Miss Spencer was not crazy? How might Agnes convey her own feelings about this matter?

‘The woman’s had all the good things in life—’

‘She’s had no mother, Lucy. And her father is terrible to her. There’s something she needs to remember, but I want to filter it and tell her gently. She’s
delicate.’

‘She’s crackers.’

‘That isn’t true. Lucy, don’t bother yourself – we’ll get a lift from someone eventually.’

‘We’ll do it. I’m sorry, Agnes, but you are on a hiding to nothing. George thinks the whole Spencer family is crazy.’

‘Hmm. All two of them? Three if you count the new wife, I suppose. Why are you so much against Helen Spencer?’

Lucy sniffed. ‘Madness frightens me.’

‘Then don’t drive us to Blackpool.’

‘We are driving you to Blackpool and you are driving me mad.’

‘Then you’ll be in good company – sanity has never appealed to me. Much better to be happily mad than sanely unhappy.’

At last, Lucy giggled. ‘How about unhappily mad? See you about ten on Sunday morning. ’Bye.’

Agnes sat down, a duster in her right hand. Absently, she cleaned the top of a small table as she thought about Sunday. Mabel Turnbull, the lady in the nursing home, was the last chance.
According to the Longsights, she had been Helen’s nanny, so she might be in a position to clarify some of the goings-on. A day out would do everyone good, she told herself. George and Lucy
need not come into the nursing home – they could return to the Golden Mile for half an hour. Denis would be there. As long as Denis was there, Agnes could manage just about anything.

The man in question entered the house. He was laughing.

‘What’s funny?’ she asked.

‘That bloody dog dragging Helen all over my lawn.’

‘The judge won’t be pleased.’

Denis shook his head. ‘He’s never pleased unless he’s punishing some poor bugger. You stay where you are – I’ll brew up and see to the cooking.’

Agnes had always known that she had been lucky in love. During this seemingly eternal pregnancy, she had indeed been blessed. Her man thought nothing of doing a full day’s work, only to
come home and start all over again. His excuse was simple and beautiful – he hated a woman with swollen ankles. The truth remained that he loved and respected his wife. It was a pity that
more men did not put family first.

‘Are we having this liver?’ he called.

‘You are and Nuisance is. I am a mere third party – I just have to process the nasty stuff.’ She sighed dramatically. ‘Never mind, I’ll get my own back when
he’s born.’

She hadn’t realized that she could write, yet once she started her fingers flew over typewriter keys in a vain attempt to keep up with the speed of her thoughts.
Sometimes, her poor typing skills were a good thing, as they slowed her down and made her consider what she was creating. There was an urgency in her, as if she believed her time to be limited,
though there was no binding deadline to the unsolicited script.

Helen Spencer forced herself to stop. She leaned back in her chair and stared through the window at gathering dusk. Days were growing shorter. Autumn and winter would be bearable, she reminded
herself, because the dog could be her excuse to leave Lambert House several times a day. Should she have kept the job in the library?

He was out a lot these days. Summer recess stretched across several weeks and, unless there was a massive crime, Father could be around whenever he pleased. However, he seemed to prefer his
Manchester club, often staying there for several nights in succession. Lodge meetings took up more of his time, and he played chess or bridge in town once a week.

Helen and Louisa were coping well with his neglect. They needed only each other, and both enjoyed being apart for a few hours each day. A rhythm developed and life became good as long as the
head of the household was absent. The two women read, Helen wrote, Louisa was having a stab at tapestry work. The house hiccuped along under the watchful eye of Kate Moores, who supervised the
comings and goings of three newly hired dailies. It was not a bad life. Helen knew that she ought to have been grateful, yet she continued to simmer and to suffer spells during which she was
mentally removed from her environment. It was the dream. It was all tied up in that nightmare.

She left her desk and walked through the house towards Louisa’s room. Life ticked on. As long as he wasn’t in it, there was a degree of transient freedom.

Louisa opened her eyes. ‘He phoned,’ she announced. ‘He’s bought a yacht and he wants me to sail with him. I’ve told him I get seasick on a boating lake, but would
he listen?’

‘He never listens.’

Judge Spencer’s wife nodded. ‘He’s getting sailing lessons. I’m going near no ships until this child is born. I’ve put my foot down.’

‘Good for you.’ Helen sat down and continued to read aloud from
Great Expectations
while Louisa dozed. A yacht? She tried to imagine her father at the helm, failed miserably.
He wasn’t an outdoors type of person. Perhaps the sea was going to be his next conquest. A second Canute, he might well expect time and tide to work to his schedule. Never mind. With any
luck, he would sink and drown. And
Great Expectations
deserved Helen’s full attention.

Agnes replaced the receiver and looked at her husband. ‘Miss Turnbull isn’t in full possession of her faculties – that’s what the matron said,
anyway.’

Denis folded his newspaper. ‘Who the hell’s Miss Turnbull?’

‘The nanny from thirty years ago. Blackpool – in a rest home.’

‘Oh.’

She bit down hard on her lip. ‘I might have to just give up. Lucy doesn’t want anything to do with it, anyway – I wish Pop hadn’t asked her to take us.’

‘That doesn’t sound like Lucy – she’s usually game for anything.’ Denis sighed. ‘What’s the matter with everybody these days? It’s murder up at
the house, Fred and Albert are always arguing—’

‘No. They’re being crusty old men. If you separated them, they’d wither a lot faster. People are just being themselves, that’s all. The only one who needs help is Helen,
and it’s starting to look as if I can’t do much for her. If the old lady’s off her head, there’s no point in me being car sick all the way to Blackpool, is there?’

‘I suppose not.’

‘And Lucy doesn’t want to help Helen. Like you, I can’t understand that.’

The phone rang a second time. Agnes, still unused to living alongside the instrument, jumped. She took the call, replied in a short series of yeses and nos, returned the receiver to its cradle.
Triumphantly, she turned to Denis. ‘There is something. That was Lucy’s George. It all gets mysteriouser and mysteriouser. He told me to stay away from Miss Turnbull for my own
good.’

‘Eh?’

‘Those were his exact words, love. “Stay away for your own good. There’s nothing in Blackpool for you, and you need to be safe.”’

‘Bloody hell.’

‘Bloody hell is right. George said the judge pays the rest home fees. He said he shouldn’t be telling me that, but he had to say it because I’m Lucy’s best friend. He
said, “Look, Agnes, you’re a clever enough woman. He pays the fees. Follow that train of thought and see where it leads. I can’t say any more, because I am breaking contract by
discussing a fellow lawyer’s client.” Those were his exact words, more or less, Denis. He’s breaking some law or other to keep me safe. How can I follow that train? And should it
be the Blackpool train out of Trinity Street?’