Ghosts of Mayfield Court (10 page)

Jackson rummaged through a number of papers on a small table beside the fireplace, and produced a rather tattered county map. With some difficulty he opened it out and spread it across his knees.

‘Let me see…. There’s Copton Vale, so we follow the railway line as far as Monks’ Stretton. And there’s Upton Carteret, where I saw old Mr Hindle, and there’s Providence Hall, standing in its grounds. That’s where I had that rather embarrassing interview with Sir Leopold Carteret, an interview that seemed to lead nowhere….

‘Ah! Yes, there it is, just half a mile beyond Sir Leopold’s demesne – Upton Cross, and there’s a little plantation of trees drawn on this map, with the word “school” written above it. That’s a curious point, Sergeant, Helen Paget’s school being so near to Providence Hall. There’s something about that proximity that I don’t much like.’

‘There’s a picture of sorts emerging, sir.’

‘There is, and it all holds well together, Sergeant. But there’s
still the stumbling-block about little Helen. Is she the woman that you met, the woman who fainted at the mention of a skeleton, or has she been dead for thirty years, hidden until recently in the ruined washhouse at Mayfield Court? It seems to me—’

Jackson stopped speaking as his wife Sarah came into the cottage from the orchard. By force of habit she still knocked on the back door, as she had done when she was just a welcome visitor, coming through the trees from her own house, Brown’s Croft. She had been a widow then, a woman who had lost both her first husband and her three little boys in the cholera outbreak at Sedley Vale, in the spring of 1880. She was carrying a bowl of russet apples, which she placed on the table.

Herbert Bottomley had risen from his chair near the
grandfather
clock, and had given Mrs Brown a clumsy bow. Sarah was a friendly, quiet woman without airs and graces, but she was the guvnor’s wife, and had to be treated accordingly.

‘Oh, do sit down, Mr Bottomley,’ said Sarah. She took her place opposite Saul Jackson at the hearth, smoothing her white linen apron, and folding her hands in her lap. Bottomley glanced at the inspector, as though seeking permission to speak. Evidently Jackson knew what he was going to say, because he gave his sergeant an almost imperceptible nod.

‘I was wondering, missus,’ said Bottomley, ‘if you’d let me tell you a story, and when I’ve finished, maybe you’d like to tell us what you think about it.’

Herbert Bottomley proceeded to give Sarah an account of their investigation of the mystery unearthed at Mayfield Court. From time to time Jackson added a few comments, but he was content to give Bottomley his head. The sergeant was possessed of a remarkably retentive memory, and very rarely got any fact wrong when discussing a case.

When he had finished, Sarah Jackson seemed lost in thought for some minutes. The grandfather clock ticked away in the
corner. Out in the orchard, a lively blackbird was informing all and sundry that this was his territory, and that they had better watch out.

‘Well,’ said Sarah at length, ‘it seems to me that there’s a very wicked person at work, someone who’s single-minded enough to sweep away anyone who stands in his path. Or her path, because it could be a woman – perhaps that heartless woman who lived at – what did you call the place? – Mayfield Court.’

‘You’re right, missus,’ said Bottomley, ‘and in my mind it is a woman who’s left a trail of deaths behind her for thirty years. I think I know who she is, but now’s not the time for me to speak. The insoluble mystery, as I see it, is what happened to Helen. One of our informants, an old gypsy man, is convinced that she was murdered, and that it was her little skeleton that was revealed to the light of day not so long ago at Mayfield Court. But I actually met Helen, now a married woman with children, so if Helen’s alive, whose is the skeleton?’

‘Well, Mr Bottomley,’ said Sarah, ‘I don’t see any difficulty there. You can’t just have a skeleton, you know, hidden in a garden without someone having put it there. From what you told me in your story – and a very wicked story it was – they were the bones of a little girl of eleven. Helen was eleven, and lived for one night in that house, never to be seen again. Why complicate matters? Of course that skeleton was poor little Helen’s. She was murdered, most like, by that horrible couple who lived in the house, the aunt and uncle, or whoever they were.’

‘But what about the Helen I interviewed, missus? That’s the stumbling-block, you see.’

‘Well, she must have been an imposter,’ said Sarah. ‘She told you how much she disliked her domineering aunt, and how kindly the servant-woman was – Rose Potter. And she said that the husband was a weak-willed kind of man. She knew a lot about that old house and its occupants – but she was only there for part of one night! Whoever that woman in Birmingham was,
Mr Bottomley, she’d had all those details drilled into her, to repeat when required to do so, like a piece of poetry.’

‘But Sarah,’ said Jackson, ‘if the woman in Birmingham was an imposter, where did she come from? I don’t quite see—’

‘Saul, the aunt told the servant that Helen was going to school that very night across the county. So she must have arranged for another child – the daughter of some poor, improvident woman, perhaps – to take her place. This other child was drilled as to what to say, told to accept a change of name, and sent to the school. You’ll have to find out all that. As for the real Helen – well, it doesn’t bear thinking about.’

‘Sarah,’ said Sarah’s husband, ‘what you’ve just said is pure supposition—’

‘Well, of course it is, but it’s an explanation, isn’t it, Saul? It leaves you with an identity for your skeleton, and sends you off after the imposter. If I ever met that woman in Birmingham, I’d soon get the truth out of her.’

‘But—’

‘Why do you think she fainted away when you mentioned the skeleton, Mr Bottomley?’ said Sarah, turning to the sergeant. ‘She suddenly realized that she had been groomed to take the place of a child who had been murdered! That’s why she fainted. Grown women don’t faint at the mere mention of a skeleton. Dear me, is that the time? I must put the cabbage on the kitchen fire.’

Sarah Jackson rose from her chair and left the living room. Jackson and Bottomley sat absorbed in the ramifications of what she had just suggested. Two Helens, one of them an imposter….

‘It might be an idea, sir,’ said Bottomley, ‘if
you
were to interview the Helen that I saw in Birmingham. You could take a local uniformed constable along with you, to put the wind up her, asking pardon for the coarse expression. I don’t expect she knows much, but she’ll know enough to put us back on the right trail of our mad, bad killer.’

7

Margaret Gates's Story

H
elen Robinson stood at the door of her smart house in Aston Road, and watched her husband as he climbed into the cab that would take him to the station of the London and North Western Railway. They had enjoyed a night out with friends who played whist, but it was now Wednesday morning, and the office beckoned.

How smart he looked! And how settled! She and Adrian had both turned forty not too long since, and the word ‘settled' was one that appealed to them both. The children, too, were content at their respective boarding-schools.

Her husband, as well as being a very successful businessman, was a pillar of the community, who had been appointed Chairman of the Board of Guardians at the Union Workhouse in May. There was a suggestion that he might become chairman, too, of the parish council.

She herself was an active member of the Gentlewomen's Sewing Guild, and an able organizer of clothing collections in the borough, but whatever she did as an individual was ultimately designed to reflect the glory of her husband. They both loved their spacious villa in Aston Road, and hoped to remain there for life.

The cab clattered away from the kerb, and Helen closed the door. She went down the hallway and into the morning room, where her maid was clearing away the breakfast things.

‘Emily,' said Mrs Adrian Robinson, also known as Helen Paget, ‘Emily, I'm worried about that big, shambling man who came here last Thursday.'

Emily put down the tray on the table, and regarded her mistress with open affection. She loved this handsome, kindly lady, who had brought her from an orphanage when she was twelve, and had trained her as a domestic servant. Emily was seventeen, the same age as Miss Alexandra, and the mistress treated her at times as though she were a second daughter of the house. Miss Alexandra was very clever and accomplished, but she didn't have much sense.

‘He were the policeman, weren't he? Wanting to hear all about when you were a little girl. When I came in to see him out, you'd fainted away on the rug. I told him to be off, and that he'd no right to frighten a lady, policeman or no policeman. Why are you worried about him, mum?'

‘It was something he told me about a skeleton that was
discovered
in the garden of a house near to a place where I once stayed the night when I was eleven. It gave me a turn, you see, because…. Well, I can't really tell you the secret, Emily, but it's left me worried ever since. If that policeman comes back with more questions, what shall I do?'

Emily thought to herself: whatever the secret is, she'll tell me when she's good and ready. But we want no trouble here in Aston Road. This is a genteel area, and if I give satisfaction, I hope I'll stay with the Robinsons for life. Unlike some other servant-girls in this street, I don't want to work in a telegraph office, sitting on a stool, and pushing wires into sockets.

‘Well, mum,' said Emily, ‘if I was you, I'd tell them the truth. Whatever part you played in the secret, it couldn't have been much, if you were only eleven. You tell them the truth, mum, and then you'll have nothing to worry about. I'd better clear in here. Mrs Winchester will be here by ten.'

Tell the truth? Yes, Emily was right. But as far as she could tell,
it was a furtive, lying business altogether. All her success in life had been based upon a deception, and now – oh, God! – they had found a child's skeleton buried in the garden of that hateful, gloomy house. What did that portend? Adrian knew nothing of her secret.

She had no interest whatever in her past. She was wrapped up in her husband and her children, and this beautiful modern house, which had a bathroom, and water plumbed to the kitchen taps instead of to a hand-pump over the sink. And she loved her wise little maid, who had long ago become her
confidante
. None of this must be challenged or changed.

Towards eleven o'clock, a heavily built man in a brown suit with matching blocker walked up the path of the Robinsons' house, and knocked on the door. Emily, who was looking out of the landing window, saw the man, and hurried down the stairs to answer the door. Maybe he was from the gas company, or perhaps he was a new shopkeeper drumming up trade. She'd certainly never seen him before.

When she opened the door, she saw that a uniformed constable was standing at the garden gate, and her stomach turned over in alarm. The man held up some kind of card for her to read, and said that he was Detective Inspector Jackson of the Warwickshire Constabulary. He had come to see Mrs Helen Robinson, and would brook no denial. Emily made no reply, but led Jackson to the back sitting room, where Mrs Robinson was sitting on a sofa, reading the paper. She announced the visitor, and left the room, closing the door behind her.

Jackson had come prepared to attack and if necessary
intimidate
. This lady looked to be a nice, attractive person, but the time for prevarication had passed.

‘You are Mrs Helen Robinson,
née
Walsh, also known as Helen Paget?' he said, and saw the colour drain from the woman's face. ‘I believe you to be an imposter, and that, as a
child of eleven, you collaborated with others to take the place of the true Helen Paget, who was then murdered. Recently, the skeleton of that poor child was discovered, and those pathetic remains lie exposed for the world to see, crying aloud for vengeance—'

Helen Robinson rose from the sofa with a cry of anguish, putting up a hand as though to ward off Jackson's denunciation. At the same time the door was flung open, and Emily came into the room. She rushed to her mistress's side and gently persuaded her to sit down again. Helen Robinson pulled the girl down beside her on the sofa, and held her hand. The mistress had burst into tears, but the maid, dry-eyed, stared at Jackson with
unconcealed
defiance.

‘A fine man you are,' said the maid, ‘coming into a lady's house and frightening her while her husband's away at work. What have you been saying to her? I tell you, I'll not leave her alone with you in this room. Why have you stood a policeman at the gate? Do you think this is a den of thieves?'

Jackson wilted under the young girl's diatribe. It was always like this. Bottomley could wheedle any information he wanted from girls and women, but he, Jackson, always managed to create scenes like this. He must calm this girl down, otherwise he would fail in the purpose of his visit, which was simply to hear Helen Robinson's childhood story.

Still clutching her maid's hand, Mrs Robinson made a
tremendous
effort to master her fear before speaking to Jackson.

‘What do you want of me?' she asked quietly. ‘Are you saying that I am a murderess? You accuse me of collusion. I tell you, I knew nothing of this other child. I never saw such a child. And I was only eleven years old when I went to that hateful place.' She repeated her original question: ‘What do you want of me?'

Jackson sat down in an armchair facing the sofa, and the action seemed to lessen his intimidating air. He smiled at the two women, and some of the tension began to be leached from the air.

‘I want you to tell me the truth about your origins, Mrs Robinson,' he said, ‘and I want you to tell me all you remember about your visit to Mayfield Court over thirty years ago. I have not accused you of murder – no, certainly not that. But I know that you are guilty of collusion in a deception, and that you must have been willing to pass yourself off as the child Helen Paget, who was then murdered. Tell me all.'

‘My husband knows nothing of all this,' whispered Helen Robinson. ‘Must he be told? And will you arrest me?'

‘You were only a child at the time of this murder,' Jackson replied. ‘If you tell me all, without deceit or subterfuge, I will keep your story confidential, and will take no further action. Your husband need never know. As for you, young lady,' he continued, looking sternly at young Emily, ‘I'd advise you to keep a civil tongue in your head. Meanwhile, if your mistress is
agreeable
, you can stay to hear what she has to say.'

Jackson saw how the mistress clasped her maid's hand once more to indicate that she was to stay. There was obviously a strong bond between the two. Helen Robinson released Emily's hand, clasped her own hands in her lap, and after a few moments' silence, she began to tell Jackson her story.

‘My name, in the days of which you speak, was Margaret Gates. I lived with my mother, Beulah, in a cottage on the fringes of the village of Newham Ford, a few miles to the south of Bicester. Mother was a seamstress, employed by a lady of quality, a Mrs Arabella Paget, who lived in a house in the main street of the village. I had known her since I was a very little girl, Mr Jackson, as I often accompanied my mother on visits to return the sheets and pillowcases that she had hemmed for Mrs Paget.'

‘Was there a Mr Paget?' asked Jackson.

‘There was. I was afraid of him, because he was vaguely menacing – or so he seemed to me. He went completely in awe of Mrs Paget, who was a handsome, well-educated woman. Mrs Paget had two young children by her first husband, a boy and a
girl. I believe they were away at school somewhere, or living with a relative. She had known Mr Paget as a friend, and married him very soon after her first husband's death.

‘Mother was very poor, her husband – my father – having died of drink when I was two years old. He was an agricultural labourer, she told me, kindly enough in his way, but a slave to gin. Mother eked out a living by her sewing, and by bouts of domestic service in the neighbourhood.

‘I went to the village school, and very soon showed evidence of great natural ability for learning. I could read and write by the time I was six, and the schoolmaster declared that there was nothing much more that he could teach me by my ninth year. He was a good, devoted man, who gave me many books to read, and encouraged me to write essays and stories. He gave me a dictionary, I remember, and I would spend hours looking up words, and pondering over their meanings. Of course, I was destined, like my mother, for humble service, and neither of us thought otherwise. People of our class were not born to aspire to things beyond our station.

‘And then, in the summer of the year 1864, when I was just eleven years old, Mrs Paget called upon us in our cottage – a thing that she had never done before – and told my mother that she and her husband were moving to a house called Mayfield Court, in Warwickshire. “I shall have no further need of your services, Mrs Gates”, she said, “but I am going to make you a proposition which you would be very foolish to refuse.”

‘Mrs Paget turned towards me, where I was sitting on a stool beside the fireplace. She gave me such a long, appraising look that I became embarrassed, and turned away in confusion. “Margaret”, she said, “I hear from the schoolmaster here that you have become an exceptional scholar. How would you like to go to a first-rate private school for girls, with all your fees and expenses paid?”

‘I heard my mother gasp in surprise, and from the look of joy
on her face I knew what my answer to Mrs Paget should be. “I should like it more than anything else in the word, ma'am”, I said, and you'll understand, Mr Jackson, that I spoke with utter sincerity. “Well”, said Mrs Paget, “here is what you must do. It involves telling a little fib, and sticking to the story that I shall tell you. You, Margaret, will call yourself Helen Paget, and when the time comes, I myself will school you in what you have to say and do. In return, you will go to one of the best girls' schools in England. You will be able to see your mother during the holiday periods, but you must keep her identity a close secret. Will you do this?”

‘What else could I say, Mr Jackson, but “yes”? I did not like Mrs Paget – she seemed to me to be a cold, heartless woman – but I had no intention of thwarting her in her desires. She was offering me a way of escape from a life of rural drudgery.

‘Then she turned to my mother. “Mrs Gates”, she said, “I will tell you also what I want you to do when the time is ripe. And as a reward for your co-operation, I will give you three hundred pounds in sovereigns.” And there and then, she went out to her carriage, and bade her coachman to bring in a valise, which contained the fortune in sovereigns that she had promised my mother.'

Mrs Robinson paused for a moment. All her previous agitation had disappeared. Telling her story evidently had a cathartic effect. Emily, the maid, sat round-eyed beside her. Jackson, too, seemed lost in thought.

‘What happened next, Mrs Robinson?' he asked.

‘What I have told you, Mr Jackson, occurred in the late August of 1864. On the twentieth of October, Mrs Paget called upon us again. We were to travel in a hired coach on the twenty-sixth of the month to the village of Mayfield, and stay in a cottage set in a coppice on the far side of the road from Mayfield Court. It would be rough and ready, she said, but we would only be there for a couple of days. Then I was to be “spirited away” – those
were the words she used – to my new school, and my new life. I was overjoyed, and forgot myself as far as to try to hug my benefactress. But she put me firmly aside. As I have told you, she was a cold, distant woman.