“One night, a little over a year ago, she came into the living room at Gaudlin Hall while the children were upstairs to discover her husband and the governess in conversation. She was quite relaxed, quite composed. She waited for them both to turn away from her and then she reached for the poker from the fire, the heavy iron poker that had been there for generations, and she set about them both, catching them off guard, with as much fury as she had attacked that unfortunate lady in the park. Only this time there was no one to intervene and a poker, Miss Caine, is a more deadly weapon than a fallen branch.” He bowed his head and became silent.
“Murder?” I asked, whispering the dreaded word, and he nodded his head.
“I’m afraid so, Miss Caine,” he said quietly. “Cold-blooded murder. When I think of that lovely Miss Tomlin, her youth, her beauty, her life taken away from her. The scene at Gaudlin Hall that night was shocking. As the family lawyer, as a lifelong friend, the officers who discovered the carnage summoned me and I promise you, Miss Caine, that I will never forget what I saw. No one should ever have to witness such butchery. No one ever could and sleep soundly again.”
I looked away. I felt sick to the pit of my stomach. I wished I did not know this story. Was I little more than a fearsome gossip, wanting to know these intimate secrets when truly they did not concern me? But we had got this far. We might as well finish.
“And Mrs. Westerley,” I said. “Santina. She was not released this time, I presume.”
“She was hanged, Miss Caine,” he replied. “The judge showed no mercy, and why should he have, after all? She was hanged from the neck until dead.”
I nodded and put a hand to my chest, feeling the bruises that were still tender.
“And the other governesses?” I asked.
Mr. Raisin shook his head. “Not today, Miss Caine,” he said, glancing at the grandfather clock. “I’m afraid I must stop there. I have to be in Norwich soon and I feel that I may need a few moments to allow my emotions to settle before I leave. Can we talk again another time?”
I nodded. “Of course,” I said, standing up and retrieving my coat. “You’ve been very generous. I feel I should apologize, Mr. Raisin,” I said. “I can see how distressed you are. I think I have only added to your pain.”
“You had a right to know,” he said with a shrug. “And you have a right to know the rest too. Only … not today, if you please.”
I nodded again and turned for the door, hesitating as I reached for the handle before turning back to him.
“It’s shocking though, isn’t it?” I said, trying to imagine how far love could be perverted so that the natural bond of mother and child should descend into something so obsessive. “To commit two murders simply to prevent anyone else from becoming close to your children. It doesn’t bear thinking about.”
Mr. Raisin looked back at me and frowned. “Two murders, Miss Caine?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Mr. Westerley and Miss Tomlin. It’s shocking.”
The lawyer shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I fear that I haven’t been entirely clear. Mrs. Westerley was not a double murderer. Miss Tomlin was the only fatality on that terrible night. Oh, she wanted to kill them both of course. And she damn near succeeded, if you’ll excuse my language. But no, Mr. Westerley, James, did not die. Although considering the life he has now and the condition in which that woman left him, it might have been better for him if he had.”
I stared at him. “Mr. Westerley is alive?” I asked, astonished.
“Yes.”
“Then I return to my original question of an hour ago,” I said. “I asked where the children’s parents are. I know where Mrs. Westerley is, of course. But Mr. Westerley? Where is he?”
He stared at me as if I was quite mad. “You don’t know?” he asked.
“Of course not,” I said, growing more frustrated now. “If I knew, then why would I ask? Has he left Norfolk? Abandoned his own children?”
“Miss Caine, James Westerley would no more abandon his children than I would mine. And he has not left Norfolk since the day he returned from that ill-fated voyage to Madrid. No, James is still here, with us. He never left. He’s at Gaudlin Hall. He’s in the house with you. He’s been there since you arrived.”
Chapter Fourteen
INEVER NEEDED AN alarm to wake in the morning nor, as a child, did I ever require Father to knock on my door to rouse me for school. When Aunt Hermione took me to Cornwall for the summer after Mother’s death, she proclaimed herself astonished that I always appeared downstairs for breakfast at precisely the time that she had told me the night before. She called me an unnatural child but seemed impressed by my punctuality. All my life, when I have known that I must wake at a particular time, I always wake.
And so when I told myself to rise at four o’clock the morning after my appointment with Mr. Raisin, I knew that I would not fail, and sure enough my eyes opened at that hour to a darkened bedroom. I roused myself and parted the curtains, looking across the grounds of Gaudlin Hall while keeping back from the window, although I did not fear it entirely for the spirit that haunted that place seemed uninterested in repeating its tricks. The fear grew from never knowing when it might strike next. Or how.
A fog had descended across the gardens, a pea-souper that reminded me of the “London Particular.” It was difficult to make anything out and I dressed quickly, making my way downstairs to the kitchen. Sitting in a position where I might keep a close eye on anyone who walked round this side of the house, I made some tea and waited. Four thirty came and went, five o’clock appeared and with it a faint splinter of light on the horizon. I could feel my eyes starting to fail and, after almost nodding off, stepped quickly towards the library to find a book that might keep me awake. While I was selecting one I heard movement from the room beyond, and I stood at the kitchen door, looking in, pleased but a little frightened that I had finally trapped my prey.
“Mrs. Livermore.”
The lady jumped, startled, uttering an oath, and spun round, her hand pressed against her chest in surprise. “Whatever do you think you’re doing?” she asked, the first words she had ever spoken to me, despite the fact that we had been in this house, or around it, together for several weeks. “Creeping up on a person like that? You might have given me a turn.”
“How else would I get to meet you?” I asked, not standing on ceremony. “It’s not easy to make your acquaintance.”
“Aye,” she replied, nodding and staring at me with a contemptuous expression before turning back to the cooker where she had set a pan of water to boil. “Them as lies in bed all morning are likely to miss me. You need to get up early, Governess, if it’s conversation you’re after.”
“Would I have got any?” I asked. “I suspect that you would have denied me any discourse.”
She sighed and looked at me with an exhausted expression. She was a stout woman, perhaps closer to fifty years of age than forty, and wore her greying hair in a tight bun behind her head. Her eyes were bright, however, and I suspected that she did not suffer fools lightly. “You may speak plain with me,” she said in a low voice. “I’m not an educated woman.”
I nodded and felt slightly embarrassed. Was “discourse” a word only used among the learned classes?
“Well, perhaps you’re right anyhow,” she added after a moment, relenting slightly, and turned back to the range. “I were making tea,” she said.
“May I join you?”
“I don’t suppose I should get any peace if I said no, should I?” she asked. “Sit down in there, I’ll bring the tea in, you can say what needs to be said and then I can get on with my work. Are we agreed?”
I nodded, and turned to make my way back towards the parlour, a room that I had not spent much time in hitherto. Before leaving the kitchen, however, I noticed a grey mark on my hand—I must have collected some dust on the banisters as I had made my way downstairs—and went over to the sink to wash it off. I gave a slight gasp as the water
hit my hands, and Mrs. Livermore turned to me.
“What’s the matter with you now, girl?”
“It’s just the water,” I said, flushing a little. “It’s so cold.”
“Well, of course it’s cold,” she replied. “Where do you think you are, Buckingham Palace?” I moved away, rubbing my hands together to warm them. The water was always freezing cold, of course; if we wanted hot water at Gaudlin Hall it had to be heated on the range.
“Tea,” said Mrs. Livermore a few minutes later, entering the room with a tray carrying two cups, the teapot, a jug of milk and a bowl of sugar. “I’ve no fancies, so don’t be asking for any. You can make your own breakfast later.”
“That’s quite all right,” I said, my tone less combative now. “And I’m sorry about startling you earlier. I really didn’t intend to give you a fright.”
“Aye,” she replied, looking away. “Well just think on, Governess. Because next time you might get a ladle to the head.” I smiled and reached for the pot but she brushed my hand away. “Let it brew,” she said. “Let the goodness take.”
She reached into the pockets of her pinafore, removed a small cigarette and lit it. I stared at her, startled. I had never seen a woman smoking before, and certainly not a neat little roll-your-own like this. I had heard that it had become the fashion among the London ladies, of course. That was their privilege. But for a domestic to do so within a house like this was quite extraordinary.
“I’ve not got a second,” she said, noticing my interest in the cigarette. “So don’t ask.”
“I had no intention of asking,” I replied, wanting no part of the malodorous thing anyway. I glanced at the pot again and she nodded, indicating that I might pour. The tea came out thick and steaming and I added milk and sugar and took a sip to warm me.
“Well, go on,” said Mrs. Livermore. “Spit it out.” I stared at her, unsure what she meant. Had she poisoned it perhaps? “Not the tea, you daft mare,” she said, almost smiling. “You’ve got summat to say, Governess, so best that you get it off your chest before you explode.”
“I saw Mr. Raisin yesterday,” I replied, keeping my tone steady; she would not bully me. “The solicitor in the village.”
“I know who Mr. Raisin is,” she said, sneering at me. “I’ve not been collecting my wages every week for the last year from Farmer Haddock’s prize goat.”
“Yes, well,” I said. “I made an appointment with him and we had a conversation. There were certain things I wanted to know and he was good enough to tell me.”
“Good enough to tell you what exactly?” she asked, narrowing her eyes as she leaned forward to lift her cup.
“That Mr. Westerley is still here. At Gaudlin Hall. Residing in this house.”
She snorted a laugh and shook her head, taking another deep drag from her cigarette before washing the taste down with a good mouthful of tea. “How long have you been here now, Governess?” she asked.
“Three weeks.”
“The girl before you, Miss Bennet she called herself, she had all that figured out in half that time. And poor Miss Harkness before her, may the Good Lord have mercy on her penitent soul”—she blessed herself, twice—“she put it all together within two days. But then she were a nosy sort and something of an hysteric. I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead but I speak as I find, Miss—” She stared at me, a rather startled expression on her face. “I don’t know your name, do I?”
“Eliza Caine,” I told her.
She smoked some more and sized me up. “Eliza were my mother’s name,” she said finally. “I’ve always liked it. I said to my Henry, if we had a girl we should call her Eliza. Only we had a flurry of boys, didn’t we? Great lumps, all of them. One as bad as the next. You a London girl?” I nodded. “I went there once,” she told me. “When I were young, around your age. Couldn’t stand it. All that noise! I don’t know how anyone puts up with it. I should lose my reason. I don’t know how they don’t all go mad up there. Do you think London folk are a bit touched in the head, Governess?”
“Not especially,” I said. “Although I know it’s a common generalization. Much like saying that all country people are uneducated and even a little stupid.”
She blew a smoke ring out of her mouth—disgusting—and her expression told me that she rather liked what I had just said, admired it even. “My point being,” she said finally, leaning forward and speaking in a much more refined tone to impress this fact upon me. “My point being that you’ve been here three weeks and you’re only coming to learn these things now. Bright as a button, you, aren’t you? Sure that you don’t have some country blood in you somewhere?”
“The truth is that I wouldn’t have known any of it at all if Mr. Raisin hadn’t told me,” I said. “And really, I do think someone might have mentioned it before now. My own employer here in the house and we have yet to speak face to face. I haven’t seen him with his children. He doesn’t join us for meals. When does he come and go? Where does he eat? Is he a ghost or does he take human form?”
“Oh, he exists all right,” said Mrs. Livermore. “He’s no ghost. He’s here in the house right now. But if Mr. Raisin told you that much, then why didn’t you ask these other questions of him? It’s not my place to tell you things.”
“There was no more time,” I explained. “He had other appointments. And he was rather emotional after telling me about the episode that took place here at Gaudlin Hall.”
“The episode?” she asked, frowning.
“When Mrs. Westerley …” I hesitated; it was very early in the day for such terrible stories. “When she set about her husband and the first governess, Miss Tomlin.”
“Hark at you,” said Mrs. Livermore, laughing bitterly. “Pleasant language for a nasty deed. Set about them, you say? When she beat one into the grave and tried to do the same to the other, you mean.”
“Yes,” I said, nodding. “Exactly that.”
“Episode my eye.”
“Mr. Raisin said that I should meet Mr. Westerley.”
“Oh he did, did he?”
“That’s right,” I said, holding her gaze. “He said that you would introduce me.”
She looked away, her brow creasing. “He’s not said ‘owt to me about that.”
“I assure you it’s quite true.”
“Mr. Westerley usually sees only me.”
“And the children, of course,” I said.
“He hasn’t laid eyes on his children since the episode, as you call it.”
I stared at her. “But that’s impossible,” I said. “Why ever not?”
“If you saw him, you’d understand. But I don’t believe it’s in your interests that you do.”
“It seems to me to be the most extraordinary thing,” I cried in frustration, throwing my hands in the air. “The master of this estate, the father of those children, keeps himself hidden away and entertains no company other than, well, forgive me, you, Mrs. Livermore—”
“There’s worse fates.”
“Please don’t be sarcastic. All I want is to understand. We are both employed here, after all, can we not share confidences? I as governess and you as Mr. Westerley’s cook or maid or whatever it is that you do.”
She took a long drag on her cigarillo now in a manner reminiscent of Mr. Raisin himself. For a long time she remained quite silent, as if she was considering this. Finally, in a quieter voice, she spoke. “A cook, you say. Or a maid.”
“Well, yes. I mean if that is what you are, after all. I don’t mean it in a disrespectful fashion.”
“I should hope not, Governess,” she said, stressing my own position. “There’s plenty would be pleased with the position of cook or maid at Gaudlin Hall. It’s a good job for the right girl. Or a widow woman. And back in old Mr. Westerley’s day there were plenty of staff here. Not like now. The place is falling down about our ears owing to the lack of them. It’s in disrepair, haven’t you noticed? That roof will come down on top of us one day soon if no one sees fit
to mend it. But you’re wrong if you think that I’m a cook or a maid. It’s true that I prepare Mr. Westerley’s food,” she added. “But then you’ve prepared food too, Governess, haven’t you?” she asked me. “You know how to put together a stew or a lamb hotpot?”
“Of course,” I said. “When I was living with Father in London I prepared all our meals.”
“Don’t make you the cook though, does it?” she asked.
“Well, no, of course not,” I said. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Livermore. I didn’t mean to offend you. Although I really don’t see why it should be offensive.”