The Judge's Daughter (28 page)

‘No. George is a good lawyer and he’s looking out for you.’

‘Follow that train,’ Agnes whispered.

Denis went to make a pot of tea. Judge Spencer was a rich man, but he didn’t throw his money at the needy. He didn’t like the needy; he believed that poor people were one of
life’s less savoury necessities, since they kept the wheels of manufacturing turning and cleaned up after the rich. The poor were often criminals, too. He was very harsh on penniless breakers
of the law.

Agnes stood in the kitchen doorway. ‘Don’t pour a cup for me, love. I’ve drunk enough tea just lately to refloat the
Titanic
.’

Denis went with her into the living room. ‘Have you followed the train?’

She nodded.

‘So have I. The matron said the old girl’s doolally, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘He probably doesn’t know she’s gone senile. That’s hush money, Agnes.’

‘That’s what I was thinking.’

‘And George’s firm – or George’s friend’s firm – handles the fees, I’ll bet. No, I’ll go further than that. I’d wager a pound to a penny
that Miss Turnbull’s been kept by Spencer since she left Lambert House. There has to be a reason for that. Another thing – what if the judge told the rest home to contact him if she got
any visitors?’

A shiver ran the full length of Agnes’s spine. ‘Dear God,’ she murmured. Then her face brightened slightly before she added, ‘I don’t think I gave the matron my
name. I just said Nan had known Miss Turnbull and that Nan had died. She said nothing would register with the old lady and I rang off. I hope I didn’t give my name.’

‘I didn’t hear you say who you are. Sit tight and try not to worry. But, Agnes . . .’

‘What?’

The pause lengthened slightly before Denis spoke again. ‘Miss Turnbull might have been paid to keep quiet because she could remember what Helen Spencer has forgotten. For all we know, the
whole business could be tied up in the one knot.’

Agnes agreed.

‘We don’t need Lucy,’ said Denis. ‘I’ll go to Blackpool and give a false name, see if I can get through to the old lady.’

‘No, you won’t.’ Agnes shook her head vehemently. ‘Unless you want to wear specs and a false moustache – and even then I’d say no.’

Denis sighed. ‘Who wears the trousers in this house? No, don’t answer that, because I know what you’ll say. We wear one leg each – eh?’

‘Too damned right, mate.’

‘Mate is about correct,’ he grumbled. ‘Bloody stalemate or checkmate or whatever chess players say. We can’t help her, sweetheart. At least you’ll always know you
did your best.’

But Agnes was far from satisfied. ‘I’m taking her to Manchester.’

‘Eh? Who?’

‘Helen. I’m going to get her hypnotized.’

Denis almost choked on his tea. ‘My leg of the trousers is planted, Agnes. You’re having a baby. You’ve seen what happens to her when she nearly remembers. If one of those
quacks can take her back to wherever she was when whatever it was happened, you could end up with a full-blown nervous breakdown in the middle of Manchester. Even I wouldn’t take that on.
You’re not making yourself ill, and that’s an end to it. There’s nothing more to be said.’

Agnes, like Denis, knew when to concede defeat. He was right. There was no way of predicting what might happen if and when Helen remembered. ‘All right,’ she said.

‘Promise me?’

‘I don’t need to. It was just a thought.’

‘Right.’

They sat in silence until someone tapped at the door. Denis opened it to admit Lucy. ‘Has he told you?’ was Lucy’s immediate question.

‘George? Yes, he has,’ Agnes replied.

Lucy sank into a chair. ‘Thank God. Listen, both of you, and listen hard. Put as much space as you can between yourselves and the Spencers. Denis, you can help with the barn – we
need to do a lot to make it fit to live in. When it’s done, George will get you work in the fresh air. You have to leave the job.’

Denis stared steadily at the visitor.

Lucy turned her attention to Agnes. ‘You, too. Let them clean their own bloody silver – you should be training for something better.’

‘The judge pays half the rent on this house,’ said Denis.

‘I want to stay near Helen and Louisa,’ added Agnes.

Lucy leapt to her feet. ‘All I can say is this – a letter was witnessed thirty years ago. It’s lodged with another firm, and we can only imagine the contents. The woman who
wrote it is in that Blackpool home – that’s why I didn’t want to get involved. When the lady dies, Helen Spencer won’t need to remember, because we think – we believe
– that the whole mess is sealed in that envelope. The lawyer who witnessed it is dead – he went to pieces shortly after reading the contents. The woman asked him to check it to make
sure she’d made her point clear. It’s bad. It’s sealed with wax and tied up with string, but we all know it’s there.’

Agnes swallowed hard.

‘Lawyers gossip, too,’ said Lucy. ‘And that judge is a much-hated man, so George and I have been on tenterhooks lately. When it happens, it’ll be like World War Three,
believe me.’

Denis stared through the window. Much as he would have loved to leave Lambert House a few weeks ago, he now needed to stay. Helen was a friend and someone needed to keep an eye on her
ill-tempered father. Skirlaugh Fall was a good place; they had decent neighbours and Fred nearby. ‘We’ll let you know as soon as possible,’ he told the visitor. ‘I’m
due back at work now. Thanks for coming, Lucy.’

Alone, Agnes and Lucy stared into separate near distances. Agnes, her eyes on the fireplace, was racking her brain for an idea that might enable her to help without putting herself in danger.
Lucy, who had already said too much, looked through the front window. ‘Pretty here,’ she remarked eventually.

‘Yes, it’s lovely.’

‘It’s a big barn, Agnes, with a cottage at the back. It’s every bit as nice as Skirlaugh Fall.’

‘I know.’

‘Will you leave?’

For answer, Agnes shrugged her shoulders.

‘It’s not a good idea to get too close to that family. You’ll be dragged in when the day comes. Helen Spencer is unstable.’

‘I know.’

‘Then why stay?’

Agnes sighed deeply before replying. ‘If you or Mags were in trouble, I’d swim to Timbuktu to help. Helen’s become a friend.’

‘Does that stop you listening to a longer-standing one? We’ve been together for ever, Agnes. If you only knew the whispering that’s gone on in legal circles for thirty years,
you’d buy a gun and lock yourself in.’

Slowly, Agnes turned and looked Lucy full in the face. ‘He killed someone, didn’t he?’

Lucy’s face was stained by a sudden blush. ‘There are crimes other than murder – serious ones.’

‘Rape?’

‘Agnes, leave it alone. The guy who handled all this became ill – he was getting on in years. But he never again spoke to Spencer, who was a leading barrister at the time. It all
smells worse than the Tuesday fish market. Mabel Turnbull has senile dementia and can’t talk in straight lines any more. Even so, her bills are paid. There has to be a reason.’

Agnes nodded thoughtfully. ‘How come the judge has never heard about this letter? He seems to be the only one in ignorance.’

‘Lawyers do gossip, as I said before, but no one cares enough to warn him. And it’s thirty-year-old news. For all we know, this Miss Turnbull could live to be a hundred and the judge
might die tomorrow. Whispers started up again when I told George about Blackpool. This time, Agnes, you had better ignore that stubbornness you inherited from Pop. You’ve a child to think
about – and a husband. George has gone out on a limb for you and Denis, so think about George as well. If that limb snaps, my man will never work again.’

‘So, if the rest home told the judge that Mabel Turnbull had had visitors . . . Well, it doesn’t bear thinking about. Even senile folk can often remember what happened decades
earlier. Tell George not to worry.’

Lucy pleaded again, begging Agnes to walk away from Skirlaugh Fall with Denis. There would be work, a cottage and George nearby. It made sense, she insisted. Events from thirty years ago could
catch up with the Spencers at any time, and Agnes should put herself away from the fallout area. ‘Talk to Denis,’ she insisted.

‘I will.’

‘Safety first, last and always. There’s a wicked genius in Lambert House. When a clever mind turns bad, a psychopath is born. Think about him. He worries about no one but himself and
he loves no one but himself. That’s one dangerous man and his daughter could be cut from the same cloth.’

‘No,’ said Agnes. ‘She isn’t.’

Lucy picked up her bag. ‘Don’t be too sure of that. Even if she is sane, she’s an emotional wreck. Don’t be pulled down the plughole with her.’

When Lucy had left, a weary Agnes laid herself flat out on the sofa, her head spinning. A part of her wanted to pack up straight away and walk the three or four miles to Lucy’s barn; the
rest of Agnes needed to remain where it was, near Pop, near Helen, near Louisa. And the decision could not be made while Denis was at work. Tormented by dreams that were probably pale echoes of
Helen Spencer’s nightmare, Agnes slept.

She woke screaming. Trying to hang on to the tail end of the dream, Helen Spencer jumped from her bed and ran all the way across the long landing until she arrived at her old
room. There was a small bed in a corner. Dolls sat on a shelf, fairytale books beside them. She was small. She could not reach the shelves, but adults could. ‘Come away,’ said the
voice. There was urgency in the tone. ‘Come away now.’

Helen blinked. Her mouth opened again and the child yelled at the top of its lungs.
I am not a child. This is all wrong.
The man came in, a woman behind him. They were from the other
time, yet they stayed. She stared at her father. He was old. The woman was the wrong woman and the screaming would not stop.

He went out of the room. The child sat on a rug. The rug was made in the shape of a teddy bear. She wanted her . . . she wanted her mother. The woman was touching her. ‘Helen, please stop
this – he’s getting the doctor.’ But Helen heard another voice, the one that urged her to come away. It had happened. It was terrible. The child carried on screaming.

Louisa turned to the doctor the moment he arrived. ‘Help her,’ she pleaded. ‘Can’t you knock her out? She’ll be all right after a sleep.’

Dragging. Banging. Someone else’s scream. Two screams now.

A needle. Sharp. Silence.

By the time the ambulance arrived, Helen Spencer was unconscious. She was lifted onto a stretcher and carried down the long, winding staircase. Louisa, terrified, could only stand and watch
while her best friend was removed from the house. Having pleaded with her husband and with the doctor, she knew that she had no chance of keeping Helen at home. She turned, saw triumph in her
husband’s eyes. ‘She won’t be away long,’ she said.

Zach Spencer looked at his wife. ‘She’s crazy like her mother was,’ he crowed. ‘She’ll be away for as long as it takes. If she doesn’t buck up, she could be
gone for the rest of her life.’

Louisa fled the tragic scene. Helen was not insane – he was. Pressing her hands against her belly, Louisa worried about the unborn child. Zachary Spencer had unseated his daughter –
what would he do to her sibling? ‘All I wanted was to be safe,’ she told her abdomen. ‘This isn’t a safe place.’ Nowhere was safe. Wherever she went, he would find
her. He knew police, private detectives, lawyers by the score. There was no escape.

What about poor Helen? She had always known that there was no way to avoid the nightly torments – it was plain that something had upset the balance of her soul rather than her mind. Would
she remember in hospital? Would the doctors help?

Louisa forced herself to return to her husband. The plan was a frail one, but it was the only idea she owned. ‘Sweetheart?’

‘Sweetheart’ was looking very pleased with himself.

‘Yes?’ His lip curled. Louisa was no longer pretty; pregnancy did not suit her – she had a bloated face with dark patches near the eyes.

She inhaled deeply. ‘It may be a good thing,’ she ventured.

‘What?’

‘The hospital may get to the bottom of it all.’

He frowned. ‘Ah. Yes, they might well do that.’ Turnbull and Helen, the two biggest threats, had almost seemed to disappear in recent years. They knew nothing, surely?

Louisa continued. ‘She dreams almost every night, Zach. It seems to be something from childhood, and she gets nearer to remembering it every day. Can you recall her being hurt?’

‘No.’

‘Are you sure?’ Was Louisa sure? Was she now threatening Helen’s very existence? Because she knew with blinding certainty that her stepdaughter’s buried secrets involved
this man. Might he hurt Helen all over again? Was he capable of killing her?

Zachary Spencer shifted weight from foot to foot. He was unused to fear, was happy only when in full control of everyone around him. There was a danger that he had just painted himself into a
corner. ‘I’ll get her home,’ he declared. ‘You are used to her and you probably need the companionship. I shall be sitting soon, when the courts reopen.’ The mad
should be left to their madness, he told himself firmly. Helen was insane, but psychiatry had advanced and she might very well respond to treatment. Was he in danger? No, no. Mabel Turnbull had
seen nothing, his daughter had seen nothing. Or was he mistaken? He had kept Mabel Turnbull sweet just in case, but he had never considered his daughter to be a threat. Adults did not remember
events that had taken place when they were twenty-eight months of age.

Louisa left him to his musings. As she walked away, the child kicked. It was as if the poor mite knew that trouble lay ahead. She closed her door and leaned against it for support. The beatings
she had received from her first husband had been nothing compared to this. Even the stabbing and the surgery had left mere physical scars. Helen had been right. Judge Zachary Spencer was not a safe
place for anyone. His daughter was now paying her dues and, at some stage, Louisa’s turn would surely arrive.

Agnes refused to be moved. She stood at the desk in the ward sister’s office, feet planted firmly, face set in a scowl. ‘I’ll wait,’ she said.
‘I’ve plenty of time today.’