The Cornish Widow, page 1
THE CORNISH WIDOW
Jacqueline Beard
Copyright © 2021 Jacqueline Beard
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of Dornica Press except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The Constance Maxwell Dream Walker Mysteries are published by Dornica Press
The author can be contacted on her website https://jacquelinebeardwriter.com/
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ISBN: 1-83-829553-4
ISBN: 978-1-83-829553-0
First Printing 2021
Dornica Press
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
The Cornish Widow (The Constance Maxwell Dreamwalker Mysteries, #1)
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
AFTERWORD
Coming Soon
The Constance Maxwell Dream Walker Mysteries
The Croydon Enigma
Also, by this author:
Lawrence Harpham Murder Mysteries:
The Fressingfield Witch
The Ripper Deception
The Scole Confession
The Felsham Affair
The Moving Stone
Short Stories featuring Lawrence Harpham:
The Montpellier Mystery
Box Set containing
The Fressingfield Witch, The Ripper Deception & The Scole Confession
Novels:
Vote for Murder
PROLOGUE
I WAKE WITH A START. The window has unlatched in the night and is slamming against the stone walls of our cottage. It is dark outside, and I reach for my stick, feeling its comforting weight in my hands before I limp towards the window. A bolt of lightning flashes through the sky as I fumble for the latch, and I place my hand on the windowsill, not noticing the pool of rainwater until it is too late. Then I stand on my tiptoes and catch the buffeting frame, almost losing my balance as I close it. I wipe my wet hands on my nightdress and shiver. How long was the window open? I can't tell because I don't know how long I have been sleeping. I've been dreaming again. Another dream so vivid that I cannot separate it from reality.
I sit on the end of my bed, wondering whether to light a candle. I don't know the time, and I haven't got a clock in my bedroom. It would serve no purpose. I rarely have appointments, and my condition leaves me unable to travel alone. A timepiece is no use to someone like me.
My thoughts return to the dream. It was lucid, real, but then they usually are. And I always remember them. I started keeping a journal of my dreams, but as I so rarely forget, the journaling seemed redundant in the end, and I abandoned it. Tonight's dream was unusually unnerving. I found myself in a house somewhere up north. Well, anywhere is north of here, but this was a good distance away. Two middle-aged ladies occupied the property, and the younger of the two was fast asleep when I arrived. I stood beside the bed, watching for a moment as her chest rose and fell. Then a muffled noise came from outside, and I passed through the wall and onto the landing just in time to see the older woman creep downstairs. I followed behind, confident that she wouldn't see me. They never do. She opened a door, and I waited for her to light a candle, but she reached for a wall switch instead, and the room lit up in seconds. They must have been wealthy as the house had electricity, which is unusual in a terraced property. Where I live, there is a limited electricity supply at the nearby hotel, but our little cottage runs on gas lamps, and I can't see Mrs Ponsonby changing things. She would disapprove.
I watched the woman as she fussed around the kitchen. She approached a cupboard, opened it, and started pushing things around as if she were looking for something. She didn't find what she was searching for and quietly closed the doors, muttering under her breath. Then she opened another door to a nearby room and removed two clothing items from a coat hanger before laying them over the table. I couldn't see much of the second outfit, but the first was a knee-length skirt with a fitted jacket. They must have different styles up north as the clothing was a world apart from the simple, feminine fashions I know. All my skirts are long, of course, to hide my leg. My friend Mary wears a calf-length dress, and she looks every inch the fashionable lady. But this tailored outfit was very modern in appearance.
Once the older woman had moved the clothes, she opened a second cupboard behind the door and rummaged inside, feeling for an object. A relieved half-smile spread across her face as she located it. She walked towards the sink and placed a brown bottle on the surface before easing the stopper free with her thumbs. Then she washed the dust off her hands and sniffed the contents, recoiling at the smell. There was a drawing on the label that I couldn't quite see, and I drifted towards it for a closer look. The bottle was the old-fashioned kind, and I remember seeing a similar one in Mr Pennigan's shop when I was much younger. The object on the dog-eared label was all that remained of a skull and crossbones – poison.
The woman put her hand into her dressing gown pocket and removed a second bottle. This one was slim and made of blue glass, and someone had fastened a dropper to it with an elastic band. She took the dropper, placed it in the neck of the brown bottle, squeezed the bulb, and transferred a few drops of liquid. Then she rinsed the dropper under the tap and wiped it dry. Finally, she replaced the top and vigorously shook it.
I knew what she was doing. It was obvious. There was no need to follow her up the stairs and watch her put the doctored medicine bottle by the younger woman. But I did it anyway. I tried everything to warn the sleeping woman. I touched her, prodded her, and I even tugged her bedclothes. Then I tried to scream, but it was noiseless. There was nothing I could do. I would have waited, but the storm woke me up, and she had gone. And although it's happened before, I cannot will myself back into a dream state. I am powerless to help her. But of course, it is just a dream – lifelike and lucid, but existing only in my imagination. I press my cheek into my pillow and listen to the sound of waves crashing against the shore, then thank God that I haven't just witnessed a murder.
CHAPTER ONE
Constance
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 13, 1930
I wake bleary-eyed to a new day. I couldn't get back to sleep last night and lay awake until dawn, fighting the urge to go downstairs and make better use of my time. I have nearly finished my book, Women in Love by D.H. Lawrence, which I hid in the bottom drawer of the bureau as my guardian, Mrs Ponsonby, would have kittens if she saw it. She hasn't forgotten Lawrence's last scandalous book, and though this one doesn't come close in content, it is not worth the aggravation of her seeing it.
I am twenty-five years old – an adult – yet still living under the guardianship of a woman I know little about. Mrs Ponsonby doesn't like me. She never has. I am nothing more than a responsibility, a duty. She might be a groomsman taking care of a horse for all the affection she shows me.
Our cottage is small and basic, but we do not lack creature comforts. I eat well and can always call upon Elys for help. She is our housemaid and lives in, attending to Mrs Ponsonby's every whim. If I want something, I ask for it, and it usually arrives. I can go outside within reason, although Mrs Ponsonby frowns on any travel beyond Newquay, at least without her permission. We don't have a telephone, but the hotel staff let me make or take calls. I only need to ask Dolly, the receptionist, if I want to speak to someone, which because of my situation, is infrequent. The local people are friendly, and the omnibus is reliable, although I may not travel alone. All in all, I cannot complain about the physical aspects of my life.
Someone unknown pays for my upkeep. Mrs Ponsonby dresses smartly and enjoys all the trappings that a woman her age could want. But I don't know who funds our home, and she won't tell me. I've often asked her and sometimes begged her, but she says that no good would come of it. Mrs Ponsonby occupies the largest bedroom, inside which is a walk-in cupboard. She always keeps the door locked, and I know because I've often tried to open it over the years. She wears the key on a chain around her neck and is never without it. Mrs Ponsonby fell down the stairs one night and severely sprained her ankle. They took her straight to the hospital, and I thought my luck was in. But despite her pain, she remembered the key and passed it to Elys for safekeeping. I tried to persuade Elys to lend it to me, but she refused and wouldn't budge on the matter. "It's more than my job's worth," she said. So, my
My life started when I was about five or six years old. No. I should re-phrase that. My memories begin from then. I know I wasn't born in Cornwall, but I cannot remember anything before arriving here. As hard as I try, anything further back is dark and hazy. No other words can adequately describe the terrible void. I used to think there was something wrong with my head. But that was before Doctor Maltravers arrived. He replaced stuffy old Doctor Kimbrell, who was older than his years and set in Victorian ways. It wouldn’t have surprised me if he’d produced a jar of leeches from his bag instead of medicine, although he never did. Doctor Maltravers is quite the opposite. He trained in London and took a particular interest in psychiatry. He says that most people suffer from childhood amnesia, but my case is extreme. He thinks it's my brain's response to childhood trauma. He might be right, for all I know, but with no relatives to hand, I can neither confirm nor deny his theory. It makes sense, though. My scarred left leg with its wasted muscles is shorter than my right, and Doctor Maltravers thinks this might have happened from lack of use. He asked if I had a bath chair when I was younger, and of course, I couldn’t tell him because I don't know. It is embarrassing, and I feel naïve and stupid to know so little about my early life.
I rise, get dressed and hook my stick over my arm, leaning heavily on the bannister as I go downstairs. It's Tuesday, and book changing day at the hotel. I want to return three of my four books, though not the hidden one, of course. Elys is setting the breakfast table and calls me over.
"Do you want some porridge, Connie?"
Mrs Ponsonby flashes a glare from the chair in the opposite room. She thinks Elys is too familiar for a domestic servant. It's 1930, for heaven's sake and about time she came off her high horse.
"No thanks," I say, walking towards the coat stand. "I'm going for a walk."
"Where?" asks Mrs Ponsonby curtly.
"To the beach and then the hotel," I answer, waiting for her response with a prepared one of my own. It's a conversation we have almost every day, and the content rarely varies.
"Well, don't go too far," she continues as if I could go any distance without a chair or transport.
"Only to the Lizard and back," I say facetiously. She scowls, and I leave, pausing only to share a knowing smile with Elys. Poor Elys. I don't know how she does it. I get out whenever I can, which isn't often, but it's more than Elys does.
I fasten the top button of my coat as I leave the cottage and head towards the beach. Our home is immediately behind the hotel, and both buildings are elevated, which makes for a steep walk. If it were up to Mrs Ponsonby, I would never go outside. She doesn't like me walking anywhere, much less to the beach. She says it will do untold damage if I fall over, but I won't get any stronger if I sit around all day indoors. I know the limits of my endurance. If the weather is mild and the tide is out, I can manage a walk to each end of the bay, which works out to about half a mile. We live in a hamlet with a scattering of houses, and the hotel, of course. The nearest village is Trevarrian, but I can't get there under my own steam because it's too hilly. As for Newquay, there is a walk across the cliffs for those lucky souls with functioning limbs. But it is beyond my capability without help.
The wind whips my scarf from the top of my coat as I approach the ramp towards the beach. The path is steep, but one of the odd-job men at the hotel erected a wooden fence a few years ago, and it helps to have something to hold on to, especially if it's wet. Today is dry, the tide is out, and the expansive beach is a joy to behold. I walk towards the water where the sand is firmer, and before long, I turn around to see stick marks peppering the once-pristine sand. I inhale the salty sea air and watch the seagulls shrieking overhead. There is not a soul on the shore – unusual for this time of day. Mostly, the holidaymakers can't keep away. But it's cold, and I expect they have sensibly huddled around the fire back at the hotel.
I will join them soon enough, but first, I head towards my favourite cave. I know it's an extravagance to have a choice, and I don't take my residence by the seaside for granted. There are about half a dozen small caves within a few hundred yards, and one is more spacious than the others. Last year I dragged a wooden chair to the cave and left it there, half expecting someone to take it away over the summer. But instead, the holidaymakers treated it as their own, adding a wooden packing crate and a small but hardy pot plant. A month or two later I discovered a small suitcase. Someone had put half a dozen books inside, to which others were subsequently added.
I can see the cave ahead of me now, every detail of its entrance as familiar as my home. I walk inside and head towards the chair. It is damp but not enough to seep through my coat. I turn it around to face the sea and sit with my stick across my legs, watching the waves ebb and flow. It is peaceful and soporific, and despite the cold, my eyes grow heavy. But I must not fall asleep here. It's hard enough to keep control of my dreams from the relative safety of my bed. So, I take a quick inventory of the cave's contents; everything is still there, with nothing new added. Satisfied, I prepare to walk back.
My route back to the hotel takes longer, of course. I tire quickly, and my limp gets worse the longer I stay on my feet. I start my daily walk with a straight back, but a lack of concentration leaves me hunching again. I stop, look forward and straighten my shoulders. It is easy to fall into bad habits, and I have enough medical problems without adding to them. I trudge back, doing my best to ignore the pain in my hip and brace myself for the climb up the ramp. Some days, it brings me close to tears. Moving on the flat or a slight downward incline is not onerous, but a slope is usually painful no matter how shallow. It's because my legs are different lengths. The cobbler has always made my boots and builds the left heel taller than the right, but it is never enough, and I often feel unbalanced. I grit my teeth and begin the climb, with the lyrics to 'It Had To Be You', looping in my head as a distraction. It works, and I find myself at the top of the ramp and head towards the hotel's entrance with little exertion. I open the door and go inside.
CHAPTER TWO
Porth Tregoryan
THE PORTH TREGORYAN hotel perches high on the cliffs just feet from the shore and facing towards Newquay. It is a handsome stone building with a gothic feel, yet far from being ancient, it is only a little older than I am. But there is something about the hotel that evokes caution, as though if not currently occupied by ghosts, they could arrive at any moment. Despite this, it is a welcoming place, and for several years the owners have extended their hospitality to the locals. This generosity includes access to the hotel library, although I am the only one who takes advantage. Their loss is my gain and provides me with a haven in which neither Mrs Ponsonby nor any of her informants can bother me.
I visit the library most days, but always on a Thursday when the reading room truck arrives from Newquay. Quite how a private hotel has arrived at this arrangement with a subscription library, I don't know. But I expect it involves the exchange of money or the acquisition of new books. I must ask Peter when I see him. And no sooner does the thought pop into my head than Peter is walking down the corridor. I am about to follow him when a head pops up from behind the counter.
"Morning, Miss Connie," says Dolly, the receptionist. She is sporting the hotel's grey and white uniform and is looking immaculate. I don't know how old Dolly is. She could be in her late twenties or perhaps early forties, but it's impossible to tell. Dolly is slender, almost skinny, which amplifies the problem in assessing her age. I could ask her, but it might seem bad-mannered, so I have held my tongue up to now. Dolly lives in the upper rooms of the hotel and stays in Porth Tregoryan all year long. Hotel work is seasonal, and most of her friends go home when the summer is over, but after three years of loyal service, Dolly is part of the scenery. I count her as one of my close friends and can barely remember the hotel without her.
Dolly smiles at me, revealing crooked teeth and a slight overbite. It is a shame as she has a pretty face and melting brown eyes with the longest eyelashes I have ever seen.
I return the smile. "Good morning to you too. And how are you today?"
