CHAPTER FORTY TWO
An ‘Unpromising Boy’
The news of Thomas Maycroft’s death, a week later at Rosewood House, was received by those who knew him, with a universal feeling of deep shock and regret. That he died by his own hand, naturally made matters worse for his immediate family and acquaintances, and did nothing to quell the endless curiosities aroused by such a quick and tragic end. While funeral arrangements were hastily being organised, local gossip flourished, along with a stream of objectionable questions, which no-one apparently could answer with any certainty. How he died, it seemed, was the most asked question, and although rumour mongers claimed that Mr Maycroft had drowned himself, other people more closely associated with the Wentworth family, declared that the poor man had taken a lethal combination of alcohol and sleeping draught.
Amid such indelicate speculation, the newly orphaned Jack Maycroft bore the news of his father’s death with an unusual degree of cheerfulness. Fearing that the child did not understand his father’s sad predicament, Agnes and Louisa tried in vain to explain what ‘death’ meant, but despite such efforts, Jack persisted in asking the same dreaded question, ‘Where is Daddy?’ As to Jack’s welfare and future in Hobart, it was unanimously decided that Jack should remain at Rosewood, until the reading of the will had taken place. This arrangement pleased Jack considerably, as it gave him the opportunity to spend more time with his favourite uncle, George, and Michael’s two kittens, Clawed and Furgus.
Just prior to the funeral, new and more distasteful information began to surface about the late Thomas Maycroft, including the unfortunate details of his recent bankruptcy, in which the bank had taken possession of both his house and business. Prior to his Rosewood visit in December, it transpired that he and Jack had been living at the back of Thomas’s ailing bookshop.
Following this final and disgraceful revelation, the two families involved swiftly devised a way of concealing the unfortunate affair from the broader community, however, the verdict from the Coronial Inquest, held at the General Hospital, declared that Thomas Maycroft had committed suicide, whilst ‘suffering from a fit of temporary insanity.’
If this ruling wasn’t bad enough for Louisa and her dignity, one of the local newspapers, The Mercury, reported the suicide death in their latest edition. The half-column article appeared on page three, under the dramatic heading, ‘Suicide at Rosewood House.’ The article detailed the last year of Thomas’s life, and included information about his family, his melancholy state, due to his financial embarrassment, and the details of his suicide. In spite of this, the newspaper piece was sympathetic to the widower’s plight, and labelled him, ‘the most recent victim of the economic depression.’ Regardless of how Thomas was depicted in the article, Louisa was overwrought and inconsolable for the next two weeks.
Frances Norwood, in the interim, was still living at Riverview in New Town, and was oblivious to all the grief and commotion that her friends and family were experiencing on the other side of the river. Since her posting with the Ballard family, Frances had had little time to read the newspapers, and taking no heed of servants’ gossip, she knew nothing at all about Thomas’s death.
One balmy afternoon towards the end of January, Frances stood by the deep-seated mullioned window in Riverview’s makeshift classroom, staring down into the extensive garden below. With arms folded casually across her chest, she leant against the floral summer curtains and continued to survey the garden with admiration. Outside, the vast expanse of succulent grass was gleaming after a recent rain shower, and from the ornamental stream, nestled behind a distant thicket of trees and shrubs, came the sounds of hiccupping frogs and buzzing insects. A nearby voice, however, quickly broke the tranquillity of the moment.
‘You don’t like me very much, do you?’ the childish voice demanded.
It was none other than the infamous and enigmatic Crispin Ballard, sitting at his desk behind her. His hands were folded delicately on top of the table, and his eyes, looking out through foggy spectacles, regarded her with a questioning look. As he waited for her to answer, he began cleansing the nib of his broad nibbed pen on a piece of blotting paper.
‘No,’ Frances replied without looking at him. ‘I don’t like you.’
‘I thought so. Well, if the truth be known, Frances, I don’t like you either.’
‘My name to you is Miss Norwood, not Frances.’
‘But you call me Crispin. Why can’t I call you Frances?’
Frances sighed. She was too tired to argue, and besides, she would only be wasting her breath on an unruly boy like Crispin Ballard.
‘Why don’t you like me?’ Crispin persisted in his habitually whining tone.
Frances ignored his question and kept looking outside. It had just started raining again, and as she watched it fall, she was reminded of her last encounter with Michael Brearly, when he had left her at the tram stop. A recurrent image Frances had, was of him running across the road, and not looking back in her direction. The memory of it was still painful.
‘Upon my word,’ Crispin was saying in the background, ‘you’re no company whatsoever. I’d get more amusement from a glass of milk.’ He idly began scratching out words on his foolscap sheet of paper with his pen.
‘Contrary to what you may think, Crispin, I am not here for your personal entertainment. I am here to help you with your studies.’
‘Yes, well you’re not doing a very good job,’ he remarked sullenly, flinging down his pen.
‘That is your opinion. Your grandmother, from all accounts, is satisfied with my work.’
‘Of course she is. She was desperate. She needed someone. No one else would do it.’
‘Yes, I know,’ Frances acknowledged through clenched teeth. ‘I also know about your scandalous expulsion from your school in Sydney.’
‘I wouldn’t quite call it scandalous,’ Crispin retaliated, tossing his curly red hair. ‘I like to think that I was providing a service for my fellow students.’
‘Humbug, Crispin. You were doing their homework for them, and then demanding money for it. Now, keep quiet and attend to your work! If you don’t finish what I’ve given you, I won’t take you to the cricket tomorrow or to the International Exhibition next week.’
Crispin was staggered. ‘You can’t do that. You can’t threaten me!’
‘I most certainly can. So keep your mouth shut and your eyes down.’
‘That’s an abuse of your power,’ he muttered, unenthusiastically picking up a pencil.
‘No,’ Frances smilingly corrected, ‘it’s a use of my power.’
‘You wait until Grandmother hears about this. She would not approve of such methods.’
‘But I do,’ Frances said, walking over to her desk in front of him. ‘And as far as I’m concerned, that is all that matters.’
For a moment Crispin made no reply. ‘I was going to tell you something important, but after that last comment, I don’t think I will.’
Frances sank into her chair and yawned nonchalantly. She then opened up a book and began reading it. ‘Please yourself, Crispin,’ she eventually said, without looking up.
‘This information I was going to tell you is a frightfully exciting secret. Only a handful of people know the facts.’ He began tapping his pencil impatiently against an ink bottle.
‘And yet I am unmoved.’
‘The secret involves the people you used to live with at Wintersleigh.’
This comment had the desired effect, for Frances gave an obvious start. ‘I’m not in the habit of listening to malicious lies, Crispin.’
‘They’re not lies,’ Crispin objected, his lip beginning to curl with haughtiness. ‘I blackmailed the scullery maid for the details, and I got the whole story.’
‘You did what?’
‘She deserved it. She was getting up to mischief with our head gardener. I caught them at it yesterday.’
‘Crispin Ballard! Have you no shame?’
‘All right, all right. The fact is
that I have information you want.’
‘No I don’t,’ Frances said defensively. ‘I don’t want to hear information obtained by such deceitful and despicable methods.’
‘Deceitful? I thought my methods were rather clever.’
‘It is not clever to inveigle people.’
‘But you do it!’ Crispin returned. He slumped back despondently into his chair.
‘I’m an adult, and you’re still a child. Being older has to have some advantages.’
‘I’ll make a deal with you then.’
‘A deal?’ a dumbfounded Frances repeated. ‘You are in no position to make deals with me.’
‘Oh yes I am,’ he corrected, placing his spectacles back on his heavily freckled face. ‘When one has such information as I have, I can make deals.’
‘I’m not interested,’ Frances said, getting angrily to her feet. ‘It’s time for history revision.’
‘If I tell you the secret, you have to let me go to the cricket tomorrow and, in addition, I get no homework.’ He watched her with expectant green eyes.
‘How dare you! I have a good mind to tell your grandmother about this! And when she hears about it…’
‘Someone at Rosewood House took their own life,’ Crispin announced without warning. Frances perceptibly faltered but said nothing. ‘Ah,’ Crispin resumed, ‘I see that you are interested. What do you say then? Do we have an arrangement?’
Frances bit her lip in anger. She deeply resented Crispin’s demands, but she also realised that she was in no position to argue. She reluctantly asked him to elaborate on the suicide.
Crispin was delighted, and began to rub his hands together in glee. ‘Well, isn’t this jolly exciting?’ he remarked laughingly. ‘Where does one start?’ Seeing Frances’s scowls, he prudently decided to continue. ‘All right, all right,’ he said, adjusting his ill-fitting glasses, ‘this is what I know. Some man called, oh, I forget his name…’
‘What do you mean you forget his name?’ Frances broke in with sudden desperation. ‘I thought you said your information was detailed.’
‘Thomas!’ he quickly added. ‘Thomas somebody.’
‘Thomas Maycroft?’
‘Yes, that’s him. Thomas Maycroft. I’ve personally never heard of him, but listen to this. According to my source, he slashed his wrists and ankles with a razor, and died in a crimson pool of his own blood.’
Frances gasped in horror. ‘Go on,’ she said.
‘When he didn’t come down for breakfast, Doctor Brearly went up to see what he was doing. The door to Thomas’s bedroom was locked, and when the doctor called out to him to open the door, there was no answer. The doctor must have had some suspicions, because in the next instant, he kicked the door down.’
‘He did what?’
‘Isn’t that the most frightfully exciting thing you’ve ever heard?’ Crispin cried. ‘I personally can’t see the doctor being that heroic. Whenever I think of that man, all I am reminded of is when he tripped over the rug at my Aunt Stella’s house a while back. God, that was jolly amusing!’ He burst into a childish peel of laughter. ‘The doctor had just shaken hands with Uncle James, then he fell over! He spilt his drink everywhere!’
Frances was silent and motionless, but underneath her calm exterior, her heart was pounding so fast that she thought she would faint. She propped her head up with a wobbling hand. ‘You’re mistaken,’ she breathed. ‘You must be mistaken.’
‘No I’m not,’ Crispin replied indignantly. ‘His ginger beer went everywhere.’
‘I’m not talking about that, Crispin! I’m talking about, about Mr Maycroft. He can’t be dead!’
‘I’m afraid he is,’ announced a woman’s voice from behind her.
Frances swung around in her chair and beheld the imposing sight of the mistress of the house, Mrs Edwina Ballard. As usual, she was dressed in an abundant combination of silk, lace and velvet. Her jewellery was shimmering from the light coming through the window, and above her enormous sleeves, her grey hair was held in place with elaborate combs and pins. As she moved forward, the large sweep of her billowing skirt rustled impressively.
‘I have been meaning to tell you about it,’ Edwina said, casting her grandson a censuring look, ‘but I have been rather pre-occupied lately, especially now that my daughter Vivian is expecting.’ She paused and allowed herself the luxury of a self-satisfied smile. ‘The truth is, Miss Norwood, that I didn’t want you to get involved in such indelicate and unsavoury proceedings. It was no place for a young woman with such impeccable morals.’
‘Oh, bosh,’ Crispin muttered under his breath, ‘you just didn’t want Miss Norwood’s name associated with a suicide.’
‘Yes, thank you, Crispin!’ Edwina berated. ‘If you continue to speak in such a manner I will send you to your room.’ She returned her attention to Frances. ‘It was a dreadful affair, Miss Norwood. The poor widower took an overdose of sleeping draught and whisky.’
Frances shot Crispin a questioning look.
Crispin looked much put out. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have trusted that servant. She was obviously only telling me what I wanted to hear. Died in a pool of blood indeed.’
‘Right, that’s it,’ Edwina barked. ‘Go to your room!’
Crispin didn’t need to be told twice. His shoulders slumped forward, and he sullenly began collecting his books and stationery. ‘Everyone around here is so frightfully boring,’ he remarked, as he made a move towards the door. ‘I have better conversations talking to myself.’ And with that final declaration, he made his shuffling departure out of the room.
The women breathed a collective sigh of relief at his departure.
‘Oh he is perverse,’ Edwina bemoaned, once Crispin shut the door behind him. ‘A most unpromising boy.’
Suddenly the door reopened and Crispin stuck his head through the gap. ‘Are we still going to the cricket tomorrow, Miss Norwood?’ he asked, watching Frances hopefully. Frances nodded her head, and after a whoop of delight, he slammed the door behind him with a burst of energy.
‘An unpromising boy,’ Edwina repeated sadly. ‘Still, there is time for him to change. God knows we are all praying for it to happen.’ She resumed her original train of thought. ‘I will be praying for Thomas Maycroft too, while I’m at it.’