The Trial of Marie Montrecourt (11 page)

Stanley’s coldness towards her made so much more sense now. Their marriage had been nothing more than a business arrangement to him. She was surprised by how much that hurt her. “Why did you tell me that Stanley wanted to marry me because he liked me?”

“Perhaps I was wrong to do that, but as a young and naive girl I believed you would find that a more comfortable reason for accepting his proposal. Stanley agreed to play his part.”

For a moment, her anger flared. “And if I choose to end it now?”

“That isn’t possible
.
Your husband will not agree to a separation, as the document he signed states that he forfeits the money if he does. Besides, you are dependent on him for support.”

It seems she was trapped. Both she and Stanley were trapped in a marriage that neither of them wanted. “There must be something dreadful in my past for someone to want to be rid of me so cruelly,” she said in a small voice.

“Now, now, Mrs Minton,” he couldn’t help speaking to her as if she were a child. “Everything has been done with the best of intentions and in your own interest.”

She did not believe him. “Does Stanley’s mother know about this agreement he signed?”

Pickard hesitated for a moment. “Yes, otherwise she wouldn’t have accepted the marriage and that could have been awkward for all of us. But she only knows as much as Stanley and no more. Both of them have been told that he will lose the money if the existence of the agreement becomes public knowledge. Not even Stanley’s father knows of it – of that, I’m certain. As for Peter learning of it – well, that’s something I wasn’t expecting.”

“Don’t worry,” Marie’s voice became hard, “Peter won’t say anything. He’s a Minton. He won’t want to risk losing the money either.”

Evelyn stared at the letter that was nestling among the rest of the mail. He’d barely glanced at the envelopes before picking them up, only noticing now that this one was addressed to his father. The postal stamp read “Pretoria”. News obviously travelled very slowly in Africa – his father’s death was evidently still unknown there. He threw the letter to one side, as he had a strong feeling he would regret reading it. After a moment, however, curiosity won and he picked it up and tore it open.

Inside was another sealed envelope without a name or address. Wrapped around it was the letter to his father. It was dated six months ago and the address was St Alphonsus Monastery, Pretoria. The writing was difficult to read and the sentences had a tendency to ramble, but he persevered.

Sir Gordon, please forgive me for writing to you so unexpectedly. You may remember our acquaintance in The Transvaal? I would not trouble you, but my cousin, Sister Grace, died over a year ago, in the Convent of Our Lady at Chartres. I was visiting Chartres and was fortuitously by her side at the moment she left this life. Her dying wish was that her letter of blessing should be passed on to her close friend, the daughter of Hortense Montrecourt. It is the sealed letter that I enclose with mine.

“Montrecourt,” muttered Evelyn – that damned name again; the name that wouldn’t go away.

Because I am now an old man,
the letter continued,
it has taken me this long to write to you asking you to inform the girl of my cousin’s passing. I only know that Marie is in England. No one at the convent could tell me where. I would not trouble you if there were any other way for me to make contact with her, but I can think of none. I believe you are the only person who knows of her present whereabouts; otherwise I would not trouble you. Could you place the enclosed letter in her hands?
There was a Latin phrase, too ill-written for Evelyn to even guess at, but it looked like a benediction. The letter was signed
Your humble servant, Father Dominic Connor.

Evelyn was tempted to tear up both letters and throw them into the fire, as he had with Harlik’s, but one of those letters belonged to the daughter of Hortense Montrecourt. Why had Harlik never mentioned to him that Montrecourt had a daughter? Perhaps it hadn’t been in his interest to reveal it, because she might be able to disprove Harlik’s version of events at Montrecourt’s farm – otherwise the man would surely have produced her to corroborate his story. With this information, he could challenge Harlik and make him confess to lying.

*

The next morning, he visited The Lamb and Flag. The printer had told him Harlik was there every day at ten o’clock. Not today, apparently. The table between the door and the window remained empty. He ordered a beer and sat down to wait, aware that he was the centre of much curiosity. After half an hour, he crossed to the bar and beckoned the landlord.

“I’m waiting for Joshua Harlik,” he said. “Isn’t he usually here around ten?”

“Not for a while, sir.”

“Do you know where I can reach him?”

The landlord shook his head. “Sorry, sir. No idea.”

Evelyn didn’t believe him, but there was not much he could do. “Would this help your memory?” He proffered a guinea, which the landlord, after a moment’s hesitation, took from him.

“Well, he does write for that paper
Clarion Call
, so I’m told. I think they’re somewhere in Titchborne Street, just round the corner.”

All eyes watched as Evelyn pushed his way out of the inn.

The office of the Clarion, or what passed as an office, was closed and to Evelyn’s irritation it meant he would have to return the next morning. It was a miserable day, more like winter than autumn, and as he hurried down Hampshire Street he heard his name being called. He stopped but couldn’t see anyone.

“Sir Evelyn.”

The call came again. In a narrow gap between two buildings, just wide enough for a man to slide down, he saw a figure beckoning him. He crossed over warily. It was Harlik. He looked unkempt; much rougher than when Evelyn had met him in the Lamb and Flag.

“I believe you’ve been asking for me,” he said. “Are you alone?” Evelyn nodded. “Then follow me.”

Evelyn hesitated. The narrow alleyway was dark and stank of urine, but Evelyn had no choice but to follow if he wanted a confrontation. At the other end of the alley, Harlik unlocked a door into one of the houses. Evelyn followed him into a small room that was lit by a shaft of light falling through the broken shutters. The room contained a mattress on the floor and not much else. Evelyn didn’t attempt to hide his look of distaste as he took in his surroundings.

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Harlik said wryly. “I’m a bit limited to where I can go thanks to your friends. They’d like to hound me into prison if they could.”

“Don’t expect my sympathy,” Evelyn said sharply.

“I don’t. So what do you want with me?”

Evelyn handed Harlik the letter that was addressed to his father. The man read it and handed it back. “I’d heard that Hortense Montrecourt was carrying a child when she helped your father, but I dismissed it because I couldn’t find any proof. How did she get to France?”

“The question I was going to ask you. Where is this daughter now?”

“I’ve no idea, obviously here in England. She might have a story to tell, mightn’t she, this daughter? Lead us to Hortense even?”

Either the man was a brilliant liar or he genuinely didn’t know where she was.

“Where’s the letter that was enclosed with this one?” Harlik asked. “Does that give a clue as to where she is? What does it say?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Evelyn said coldly. “It isn’t addressed to me.”

“That wouldn’t stop me opening it, but I can see that you’re a man of principle,” Harlik mocked. “So what are you going to do? How are you going to track the girl down?”

“I don’t know,” Evelyn admitted.

Harlik grew thoughtful for a moment. “I might be able to point you to someone who could help. If you can trace him.”

Why was the man being so helpful? Unless he thought that the daughter would help prove his story. In which case, it would be better to walk away from the situation before he discovered things he would rather not know. “I won’t bargain with you. If she proves you a liar, I’ll make sure everyone knows.”

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take. Are you?” Harlik challenged.

“Yes.” Evelyn responded curtly, after a brief pause.

“Well, I’m not sure there’s a connection, but there’s a man called John Pickard – something to do with the law. I don’t know where he works, but I do know he’s had dealings with your father – and there was some link to the Transvaal.”

“How do you know that?”

“I once took up residence outside your father’s apartment some years ago. I saw this man going in and out quite regularly. I noticed him because he always glanced around him first to make sure he wasn’t seen entering or leaving. Very secretive. One day, I caught sight of some papers he was carrying. They were legal papers of some sort and I spotted the word ‘Pretoria’. Couldn’t see anything else and I could never find out what business your father had with him.”

Something was beginning to stir in the back of Evelyn’s mind. On the day he’d found the journals in the attic at Ardington, he’d discovered an account book detailing regular payments to someone with the initials JP. Was that John Pickard? Harlik was watching him speculatively.

“How did you know the name of this man, and why should his business involve Montrecourt’s daughter?”

“I made friends with one of the maids who worked for your father. She told me his name. She couldn’t tell me much more, except that she was sure she’d heard them talking about someone called Montrecourt. As to any involvement with the daughter, I don’t know if there
is
one. Maybe he can tell you where the girl is; maybe even where Hortense is now. If you’re really sure you want to find them?”

There was a mocking smile on the journalist’s face. He was enjoying testing Evelyn’s faith in his father.

“Thank you. I will track him down. I won’t stop until I find the truth.” Evelyn said firmly. He had kept his nerve and had the satisfaction of seeing Harlik’s mockery falter as a result. He turned on his heel and walked away.

“Don’t suppose you’d care to let me in on it, when you’ve found out what you want to know?” Harlik shouted after Evelyn’s departing back. Evelyn ignored him, heading down the alley. The words “You can’t stir up a hornet’s nest without someone getting stung” drifted after him.

He needed to find this John Pickard.

Marie had quickly realised that John Pickard was right. There was nothing to be gained by confronting Stanley with what she’d learnt from the solicitor. It would only sour their relationship more and gain her nothing. As for the money – wherever it came from, the building of the tea room had probably taken care of most of it. To Peter’s relief, she made it clear that she did not intend to use his indiscretion against him, but it obviously didn’t ease his fear that she might do so one day.

“I’m going to stay with friends in Bradford and I’m going to start looking for work,” he announced unexpectedly at the dinner table, soon after her visit to John Pickard.

Stanley grunted his approval, Edith said she’d miss him, and Marie gave no indication that she’d even heard him. However, in his absence, life at The Laurels became duller. She kept herself occupied by making cures for Gladys’s friends and taking the dogs for even longer walks.

A few weeks later, Stanley came home bursting with the news that the tea room was at last ready to be launched. Marie was astonished to be invited to the opening day. She accepted gratefully, ignoring the sourness of his mother’s expression.

When it came to the day itself, Edith suddenly declared herself unwell and not strong enough to attend. Marie wondered if it was because she resented her daughter-in-law’s inclusion. Edith had always made it clear that she considered The Emporium territory to be shared exclusively between herself and Stanley – not even Edwin was included in that. He hadn’t even been invited to the opening.

The banner above the door of the new tea room, which announced the grand opening, flapped briskly in the chill wind. It read:
COME AND HELP US CELEBRATE
. One of the ropes holding it in place had worked loose on one side and the banner had folded back on itself, so all that could be seen was
HELP US
, but no one had noticed yet.

If she was honest, Marie found it rather a clinical place compared to the opulence of the Orient. The huge potted palms framing the doorway outside made it look like the entrance to the pump room. Inside, the décor was too cold, too silver and lilac, and too formal, with wrought iron grilles in the latest geometric design separating the tables. It needed a softer touch, a splash of luxury. Banquettes covered in soft velvet and in warm colours, like peach or russet. That’s what she would have advised him, but, of course, she was never consulted.

Geoffrey arrived at Stanley’s side. He nodded briefly to Marie. “Where’s Ma, Stanley? Not like her to miss an occasion like this.”

“She wasn’t well enough to come.”

“Did you send for the doctor?”

“No, she won’t have him. Just a touch of indigestion, she says. She doesn’t want a fuss making.”

The bell on the tea room door rang and Marie turned to see who else had accepted Stanley’s invitation. Harrogate town centre must surely be deserted. She saw that it was Peter, bowler hat pushed back on his head, hands characteristically thrust into the pockets of his overcoat. He spotted Geoffrey and Marie and headed towards them, picking his way adroitly through the crowd.

“Well, this is looking… rather jolly.” He arrived by her side, picking up one of the silver-and-lilac menu cards from a nearby table. “Very smart! Has anybody noticed that the banner is falling down outside?”

“Tea or coffee, sir?” One of the waitresses had spotted the new arrival.

“Let it be tea, why not.” When the waitress and Geoffrey had moved away he positioned himself behind Marie while ostentatiously studying the menu card.

“Had a very interesting time in Bradford,” he whispered.

“Have you been drinking?” She could smell it on his breath.

“A bit. I might have something to celebrate today. It’s a secret, but I’ll tell you about it when we get back to The Laurels. Stanley says he’ll be working late tonight, so I’ll escort you home. Missed you,” he whispered.

“Missed you, too,” she acknowledged. There was no one who could make her smile the way Peter could.

As the afternoon drew to a close, Marie, exhausted from holding conversations with people she had never met before and probably would never meet again, suggested to Peter that they might leave. He was only too happy to agree. She asked him on the journey home about his secret but he insisted on being mysterious.

“Wait till we’re home,” was all he’d say.

By the time they arrived at The Laurels, Gladys had left and Edith was still nursing her illness in bed. Edwin was out with friends.

“Better keep our voices down,” Peter whispered. “Otherwise Ma will be down demanding to know how it all went and that’ll be the end of our little tête-à-tête.”

He manoeuvred her into the front parlour, which was the room furthest away from the staircase. The curtains were closed and the piano covered. He took a hip flask out of his jacket pocket and held it out to her. “Whisky?”

She shook her head. He took a long drink and pushed the flask back into his pocket again.

“What’s all this secrecy about?” She was beginning to feel impatient. It was obviously something that pleased him.

“Well, I’d been wandering around Bradford for weeks trying to find a job and there was nothing. Not without any references. I was feeling low, really low.”

An unwelcome thought struck her. “You haven’t started gambling again?”

“No. There was no gambling involved. I did bump into an old friend, though. He lives in America now, manages a millinery factory in New York. He was home on a visit, just to tie up a few loose ends before settling over there permanently. Anyway, he says they need a foreman and he’s offered me the job. I was telling him there was nothing happening for me in England. It’s a good job, too, and pays well. The streets really are paved with gold out there he says.”

“Peter, I really am glad for you.” She was genuinely delighted, although she doubted it would be as easy as Peter seemed to believe it would be.

He took out the flask again and raised it in a toast. “To New York,” he said.

Marie laughed. “To New York,” she repeated. How would Edith feel about that?

“All I have to do now,” he said, “is to find the money to pay for my passage to America.”

“Could your friend not advance it to you?”

“I don’t want him to know how low funds are. He might start having second thoughts and start asking for references.” He sank down onto the sofa and she sat beside him. “I’ve spent the last few days trailing from friend to friend trying to raise enough, but no one is willing to back me.” She opened her mouth to suggest he ask Geoffrey or Stanley, but he headed her off. “No, it’s no good asking the family for help, Marie, if that’s what you’re going to suggest. Geoffrey won’t part with a farthing that he doesn’t have to. Work for it, is all he’ll say. And Stanley, well, he’s still waiting for me to pay him back the fifty guineas I borrowed to resolve my little problem at the mill.” He smiled. “And then I remembered the eight hundred pounds you’d brought with you to the marriage and that started me thinking.”

“Oh?” She was puzzled. “I don’t follow.”

“You must be able to get your hands on more. Ask Pickard; he must know how to get it.”

She began to laugh and then realised that he was serious. “That’s silly, Peter.”

“Think about it; we could both have a new start. You could come with me to New York.”

She stood up. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not making any sense. You’ve had too much to drink.”

He also stood up. “You have no marriage at all here, we both know that. Who in New York will even be aware of it? I know you like me; we could set up house together.”

He caught hold of her by the shoulders and drew her close. His intensity was beginning to frighten her now.

“Peter. Please, you’re hurting me.” She tried to push him away, but he wouldn’t let go. He tried to kiss her; they stumbled back against the fireplace and the bodice of her dress was ripped open. It was then that she saw, over Peter’s shoulder, the figure of Edith silhouetted in the doorway with a look of horror on her face.

She realised how it must seem: her son with his arms around his brother’s wife, and the front of her dress hanging open. Edith tried to speak, but her face turned purple with the effort. She clutched at her chest, then slowly – oh, so slowly – she slid to the floor, her mouth hanging open, her eyes glazed.

Peter turned, following Marie’s gaze. He was horrified by what he saw. “Ma!”

He pushed Marie aside and she fell awkwardly against the piano, bruising her arm. She watched Peter trying to loosen the neck of his mother’s nightgown. He slapped her cheeks to revive her.

“For God’s sake, get water, get water,” he called over his shoulder.

Badly shaken, Marie ran into the kitchen and returned with some water in a cup. Peter snatched it from her, he was trying to force the liquid between his mother’s lips. It dribbled out of her mouth and ran down her chin. Marie stood helplessly by as he dropped the cup and clutched his mother to him, rocking her backwards and forwards.

“Ma! Ma!” He turned to Marie again. “McCullough. Get McCullough. Victoria Street, number nine. Tell him it’s urgent.”

At last, she regained control. “Take your mother upstairs,” she ordered. “Make her as comfortable as you can.”

But she feared, as did Peter, that Edith had already stopped breathing.

*

After the funeral, a mixed group gathered at The Laurels to mourn Edith’s passing. Geoffrey and Isabelle were doing what they could to give support to Stanley and Peter. There were others from the family, like Edith’s cousins from Sheffield and her sister from Edinburgh, whom no one had heard from in years. Then there were those who were present simply to pick up all the gossip they could, such as the ladies from the chapel, Betsy Capes and her friends, who had never been allowed across the threshold of The Laurels while Edith was alive.

Alice and George Smith were there, and the Godsons. Reverend Jackson, who had conducted the service, was there out of duty, flitting through the room proffering words of sympathy to anyone who would listen, while Dr McCullough was there for the free food and drink.

Marie was seated alone in a corner of the room. She was feeling the strain of the past week and hoped to avoid the necessity of conversation, but most of all she wanted to avoid Peter. The moment the doctor had declared Edith dead, he’d started to lie his way out of the situation. Marie had been playing the piano in the parlour, he said, and he was turning the pages of the music for her. Edith had been disturbed by the noise and had come downstairs, and in her weakened state the effort had proved too much. He wanted to get his version in first, before Marie had a chance to denounce him. Marie struggled to know what to do. If she told the truth, would anyone believe her? The family were suffering enough without her adding to their problems. Peter’s explanation had been accepted, so she decided to allow the lie to remain unchallenged.

“Marie, is there more tea?” She realised Isabelle was trying to attract her attention. “Marie, Alice would like some more tea, dear.” Marie stared back at her sister-in-law dumbly and Isabelle said, “I’ll see to it. You stay there.”

Marie watched Stanley cross over to Edwin. Father and son had taken Edith’s death badly. She heard Stanley say, “Can I get you anything, Pa?” His father shook his head and tried to struggle to his feet. “No, you stay here,” Stanley said. “I’ll get you whatever it is you want.”

“I don’t want anything; I just want everybody to go away. I can’t go on without her, Stanley.”

He pawed at his son’s hand and Stanley patted his shoulder awkwardly. Expression of any emotion never came easily to the Mintons.

“I shouldn’t have left your Ma alone that day.” Edwin wiped his eye with the back of his hand. “But she was always taking to her bed and nothing serious had ever happened before. How could I have known? But they were here, Peter and that woman. Why didn’t they realise how ill she was?”

Marie had noticed that since Edith’s death, Edwin had begun to refer to her as “that woman”. Geoffrey now joined them.

“Pa’s tired,” said Stanley. “I think we need to get him upstairs, Geoffrey. Help me up with him.”

Marie watched as the two brothers hauled an unresisting Edwin to his feet. Between them, they half led, half carried him through the door and up to his room.

*

It was some hours later and Marie was longing for everyone to go. She was tired and her head ached. She wandered into the deserted kitchen and glanced out of the window. Peter was in the garden and so was Geoffrey. They were in deep conversation. Suddenly, Geoffrey pushed his brother violently up against the wall. Marie gasped as he raised his fist.

“Mrs Minton.”

“Yes?” She whirled around to find Betsy Capes hovering at her shoulder. Marie swiftly blocked the view from her.

“Is there any more tea?” Betsy tried to peer over Marie’s shoulder.

Marie swiftly thrust a plate of sandwiches into Betsy’s hands. “Perhaps you could take these into the parlour for me? I’ll bring the tea through to you.”

Unable to refuse, Betsy reluctantly did as requested. Marie waited until she was out of sight before turning to look outside again. The garden was empty.

*

The mourners had gone at last and Marie was alone in the parlour. She started to pile up the dirty plates. She felt drained of all energy. Stanley entered the room.

“Leave everything,” he said, his voice flat and dull. “Gladys is coming in early to do that.” He sank into the nearest chair. “This has been a dreadful day.”

“Terrible,” she said with feeling.

Ever since she’d seen Geoffrey threatening Peter in the garden, she’d been on edge. What had caused the assault? Had Peter confessed? Geoffrey came in and she glanced up quickly, trying to gauge his reaction to her. He didn’t look in her direction.

“You should get to bed,” he said to Stanley. “You look ill.”

“You don’t look so good yourself. Where’s Peter?”

“Gone,” Geoffrey said, and Marie didn’t know whether to feel glad or angry. “Come on, get yourself to bed. Then I’ll go, too.” Stanley allowed his brother to help him to the stairs.