The Cornish Widow, page 13
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Travels to Plymouth
SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 23, 1930
Oliver Fox has gone away, and with him, nearby counsel should the need arise. His departure was the first thing I thought of when I woke earlier today, and he was still on my mind while I was packing. I feel his loss acutely and wish I had spent more time getting to know him.
Isla Tremayne will arrive soon, and we will depart for Plymouth. I should be excited. I have waited most of my adult life for an opportunity like this, but I can't forget Felix Crossley and the horrors of that night are clouding my thoughts. I don't know what draws me to him and why our paths keep crossing. Neither does Oliver Fox, who tried, but failed, to conceal his concern for me when I told him. He has asked me to stay in touch, and I will, although it will be harder without Dolly. I cannot imagine the Templeton woman affording me the same kindness if I ask to borrow the hotel telephone.
I look in the mirror again and smudge my eyeliner a little more, trying to make it fade until it isn't so obvious. Dressed in my new clothes and footwear, I don't look like me, and I don't feel right either. It's almost as if I have aged by a decade. I am nervous and unsettled, and far from being keen to leave, I'm unexpectedly worried about being away from my usual surroundings. Mrs Ponsonby has noticed my subdued demeanour. She keeps asking if I am well and evidently suspects I am sickening for something. It would be the easiest thing in the world to give in and stay, easing her mind as well as mine. But I would regret it in a few days when I am feeling better. And what protection can she or anyone else offer from something that isn't physical? Besides, I can't tell anyone other than Fox. They would think I was losing my mind. If I betray my secret, I might end up with Gregory Carmichael in Coney Hill, and I shudder at the thought.
"They're here," says Elys, running in from the parlour. "How exciting. You'll have a lovely time, Connie."
I turn and muster an unenthusiastic smile.
"Cheer up," she says. "I'm fed up seeing all these long faces."
"Hmmm?"
"Mrs Ponsonby looks like she's dropped a shilling and found a penny. You're a pair of worrywarts."
I heave a sigh and walk towards the parlour window. Peter is coming up the pathway with Mrs Tremayne and suddenly my spirits soar. Everything seems so much brighter at the sight of an old and trusted friend. I grin and wave.
"I'm going to Plymouth," I beam. "I'm really going away."
"About time," says Elys, bustling towards the door.
Peter bounds inside. "Where are your bags?" he asks, and I point to the suitcase beside the dining room table.
"Good. You're travelling light. There's not much space. I suppose I should have mentioned it before you packed."
I open my mouth to reply, but he has grabbed my case and is halfway back to the car.
Mrs Ponsonby appears from the kitchen and welcomes Isla Tremayne. "Can we have a few moments?" she asks, taking Mrs Tremayne's arm and guiding her into the parlour.
I glance at Elys. "What's that all about?"
"I don't know," she says. "But you know what Mrs Ponsonby's like. She'll be worrying."
I shake my head. "She'd better not be laying down silly rules. It's so embarrassing. I'm a grown woman, and if I can go to..." The words trail away. I nearly said Berlin, and I cannot believe my loose lips. I am beginning to confuse the dream world with real life. "Never mind," I say.
Peter opens the door and waits in the hallway. "Are you ready?" he asks.
"Yes. But Mrs Ponsonby has corned your mother in the parlour. Hopefully, they won't be too much longer."
"Good. Malcolm is getting impatient."
"Malcolm?"
"My cousin. He's driving."
"I didn't realise."
"No reason why you should. You don't mind, do you?"
"No. Of course not."
The parlour door opens, revealing Mrs Tremayne. She crooks a finger and beckons Peter to come inside. He shrugs his shoulders and follows.
I watch the door close, aghast.
"What now?" I ask Elys. I am close to tears. What is Mrs Ponsonby telling Peter that she can't say in front of me?
Elys takes my hand. "In ten minutes, you'll be away from here and off on your adventures. Just let it wash over you. Whatever she's saying is not worth getting upset over. And anyway, Peter is sure to tell you."
She's right, of course. I don't doubt that Peter will confide in me. He better had, or he'll be in my bad books. We've been friends for a long time, and he knows how I feel about Mrs Ponsonby.
Five more minutes pass, and Peter emerges, face uncharacteristically stern. Isla Tremayne follows, straight-backed and serious.
"Are you ready, Connie?" asks Mrs Ponsonby. Her face is pale, and she has forced a smile that doesn't fool me for a moment.
I smile back. "Yes, thank you," I say. "And I appreciate the opportunity to visit Plymouth." I know little about body language, but Mrs Ponsonby is bristling with concern and could change her mind at any moment. The slightest reason could be enough, and I am determined not to give her any room for further doubt. Being excessively nice is a small price to pay.
"Good. Let's be on our way," says Mrs Tremayne. Peter opens the door and leaves the house, followed by his mother. I fasten my coat, collect my stick and handbag and am about to join them when Mrs Ponsonby grabs my arm.
"Be careful, dear," she says, pecking my cheek. "It's time I let you go a little. Enjoy yourself."
I walk to the car in stunned silence. Peter opens the door and helps me inside. I watch from the window as Elys and Mrs P stand outside Pebble Cottage waving as we pull away, and I feel the shadow of her kiss for a long time after.
"IS SHE DYING?" I ASK, sitting heavily on the pink counterpane in my bedroom at Smugglers Cottage. It is the first opportunity to speak privately with Peter since leaving Porth Tregoryan that morning. Though Malcolm drove and Mrs Tremayne sat in the front of the car, I didn't dare ask Peter the questions burning in my mind after Mrs Ponsonby's strange behaviour.
"Who?" asks Peter.
"Mrs Ponsonby, of course. First, she dragged you into her parlour to speak about goodness knows what, and then she kissed me. She actually kissed me on the cheek and said she hoped I would enjoy myself. It makes me wonder if she is suffering from a terminal illness."
"Or she might genuinely hope you'll have a good time," says Peter.
"No. Mrs Ponsonby hates me."
"I assure you she does not."
"What did she want?"
Peter bites his lip. "What if I said I'd rather not tell you?"
I clench my fists and try to swallow the burn of anger his words provoke. Peter speaks again before I can reply. "But I will, of course," he continues. Peter is nothing if not perceptive and will have taken seconds to interpret my reaction. "But Mrs Ponsonby asked me not to, so I would appreciate it if you didn't tell her."
"What do you take me for?" I ask. "And you shouldn't have agreed to keep something from me. Don't collude with her."
"I'm not," he says. "But I feel sorry for Vera."
"Vera!" I explode. Then I take a breath and try to calm down. "What did she say?"
"Only that she's worried about you. Mrs Ponsonby knows it's time to give you a little more freedom. She would love to have joined us but understands why it wouldn't be sensible. But she's asked us to promise not to leave you alone for a moment."
I groan. "Please tell me you didn't agree."
"Of course, I did. Mother too," says Peter. "But I suspect she will take a loose approach to that promise. Mother has no intention of coming to court with us. She has better things to do, and if that means putting Malcolm in loco parentis, then I'm sure her conscience won't trouble her unduly."
"There you go again," I say, and my lip trembles. "Treating me like a child. I don't need supervision."
Peter perches next to me on the bed and jabs a friendly elbow into my side. "Connie," he says fondly. "We're in Plymouth for a few days – the world is our oyster. We've made a few promises to make your guardian feel better, but that doesn't mean we can't enjoy ourselves. Malcolm will hardly trouble us. He will stay nearby while we are in court, and Mother will watch us from a distance the rest of the time. She is very easy going, and you will hardly notice her."
"We won't be able to talk," I say moodily.
"What are we doing now?" he replies. "It will be much easier to speak privately, and Mother is so pleased to see Aunt Veronica that all she wants to do is gossip. She won't be paying the slightest attention to what we do."
"I like your aunt," I tell him. We'd arrived earlier in the afternoon, and Veronica had greeted me like a long-lost niece, ushering us into her homely cottage in New Street for tea and homemade scones, which she had spent the morning baking. Veronica was widowed a few years ago. Her children have all left home, and she doesn't have a maid. Our rooms are spotless, and she made up the beds herself; that is, Peter's, mine, and Mrs Tremayne's. Malcolm is staying with a friend in town, which will suit him better and me too, if I'm honest. I've always found Malcolm slimy. Being stuck in the car with him for the duration of the journey and a lunch stop has not improved my opinion. Malcolm has an unfortunate sense of humour bordering on the vulgar. I am no prude, but there are limits when you don't know someone very well. He overstepped the boundaries more than once, causing Isla Tremayne to flush with embarrassment. I haven't seen her lost for words before.
"Do you need a hand unpacking?" asks Peter.
I shake my head. "I'll manage."
"Then I'll leave you to it. We're eating out tonight," Peter continues, winking as he leaves the room.
I stand and walk to the window. Smugglers Cottage nestles among a range of eclectic properties, from grand timbered Tudor buildings to rough-hewn stone cottages. It is too narrow to drive down, and Malcolm had to park the car some distance away. Peter took two trips to carry our bags while I struggled to negotiate the cobbles with my stick. All this activity has made me tired. I glance at the clock. There are two hours until supper time, and I decide to spend them wisely by taking a nap.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Inquest
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 24, 1930
We meet Malcolm outside the Plymouth Guildhall, having eaten a hearty breakfast at Smuggler's Cottage. We are too early to go in and spend ten minutes chatting outside. Malcolm listens enviously to our account of the laden breakfast table we feasted from that morning. Peter's aunt Veronica had excelled herself and spoiled us for choice.
"Norman burned the sausages," Malcolm complains. "He nearly burned the bloody toast as well. I'm eating with you tomorrow."
Peter anxiously paces while we wait for the doors to open and moves so far away that I am left alone with Malcolm, who is still protesting about his paltry meal. One by one, a small crowd gathers around us, mainly composed of journalists and photographers. Two arrange their tripods and start discussing the witnesses whose pictures they hope to take. Malcolm spots a journalist he knows and calls out his name, then walks towards him with his hand outstretched. I listen to them discussing the impending trial before glancing towards Peter, who is close to the main door of the Guildhall. I am standing alone. Neither man is watching, and even at my sluggish pace, I could walk away, and nobody would see me go until it was too late. I am free – free of Mrs Ponsonby's eagle eyes and no longer a prisoner. It feels good. But I don't flee because I am keen to watch the proceedings. I had hoped they would have found Annie Hearn by now. As much as I'm looking forward to attending the inquest, watching Annie getting a fair hearing in court would improve things further still. Peter thinks she's dead, but I'm not sure. I still hope she's alive, though she's probably frightened and lying low until she can prove her innocence. I want to help her, and I hope this inquest will not leave me thinking otherwise.
The doors to the Guildhall open with a creak. Peter turns and looks for me, then smiles in relief as I wave. He strolls towards me.
"Where's Malcolm?" he asks.
"Over there." I gesture towards Malcolm and his friend.
"So much for keeping an eye on you," he says.
"I thought we agreed it wasn't necessary."
"I know," says Peter. "I don't like to break promises, but I won't stick to you like glue. They're going in now. Come on."
He takes my arm and guides me into the public gallery, where we perch on hard wooden seats. The case is attracting a great deal of interest and before long, there is standing room only. The court orderlies turn several latecomers away, and Peter and I exchange glances.
"It's a good thing we were near the front," he says. "We'd better stand close to the door tomorrow if the inquest runs over."
"Do you think it will?"
"It depends how many witnesses there are. I say, can you see Malcolm?"
We scan the room looking for him and hope that he got through. Peter spies him first, sitting with his friend diagonally opposite.
"Good," he says. "That would have been a disaster."
The coroner's assistant enters the room, followed by two middle-aged men. He waits while they sit behind a long wooden table at the head of the room, then coughs and states that the proceedings are now open. "The Plymouth city coroner, Mr J.A. Pearce, will conduct the inquest," he announces. "And Sir Hugh Protheroe-Smith, the chief constable of Cornwall and Superintendent Pill of Launceston, are also in attendance." The assistant sits as the coroner rises and begins to speak. His summary of the case is slow and rambling, and I find myself becoming irritable and wish he'd get on with it. Then he reads aloud the letter from Annie Hearn written to William Thomas. I recollect the differing conclusions Peter and I came to when we first became aware of it, and Peter does too. He raises his eyebrow and grins smugly, still adamant that the letter points to Annie's guilt, but on hearing the words again, I am more confident than ever of her innocence. Then the coroner calls Dr Saunders to the stand, who transfixes us with his account of Alice Thomas's final illness.
"It was short and painful," the doctor says. "At first, I thought it was food poisoning. Mrs Thomas seemed to improve but suddenly became worse, and I sent her to Plymouth hospital under the care of Dr Lister."
"Did you suspect anything other than food poisoning?" asks the coroner.
"Initially, no. But following her unexpected decline, I became suspicious."
The coroner asks what symptoms Alice Thomas displayed. Dr Saunders lists them and tells the coroner that some were common in both ptomaine and arsenic poisoning. There being no further questions, the clerk dismisses Dr Saunders and William Thomas takes the stand.
I sit up and watch as he walks in, back straight, and eyes fixed ahead. Thomas wears a moustache, and, for a farmer, he dresses smartly, even down to his polished shoes.
"Name?" asks the coroner.
"William Thomas," he growls. His accent is broad but pleasant, and his voice is strong. He looks uncomfortable yet far from defeated.
The coroner asks him about their meal in Bude on the day Alice Thomas became unwell, and William gives a comprehensive answer, omitting no detail. I am impressed by his seemingly honest account while finding it a little too slick – too rehearsed.
"I also ate the sandwiches, although not as many as Alice," he says. "Later, I felt nauseous but banished the worst of it away with the aid of a little whisky." Several men titter as Thomas describes the healing effects of the spirit, and the coroner fixes them with a steely glare. He doesn't have to admonish the men publicly for the laughing to stop as his disappointed demeanour yields immediate results. I wait with bated breath for more questions, and the coroner continues.
"What happened when you arrived home?" he asks.
"I sent for Mrs Parsons, Alice's mother," says Thomas. "She prepared our food for the next few days."
"And where was Mrs Hearn?"
"With us, at the farmhouse."
"Did she prepare any food?"
"The Sunday dinner, I believe," he says.
Peter glances at me in an 'I told you so' sort of way.
"Did your wife take any medicine?" asks the coroner.
Thomas nods. "Yes. Two aspirins from a bottle which Mrs Hearn brought from her house."
I hear a gasp from the crowd and realise that the sound also came from me, as I wonder whether he somehow doctored the pills. I expect the coroner to ask for further details, but he does not. He passes over the matter and asks what happened next.
"My wife became very unwell," says Thomas. "Her mother, Mrs Parsons, worried about her too and thought the aspirins might have upset her. Alice was sleeping in a different room as she was so unwell. And in the early hours of the morning, I heard her cry out and went to her. 'Carry me back to your room,' she said. 'The bed is streaming wet, and the bedclothes torn to pieces.' I did as she asked, but she did not improve, and when Dr Saunders saw her, he sent her to Plymouth."
"Was your wife insured?" asks the coroner.
Several journalists stop writing and stare at Thomas. His eyes flash, and his face reddens. Whether in guilt or fury, I cannot tell. "No. She was not insured," he says in a low, calm voice.
"And do you keep arsenic on the premises?"
"I have never purchased arsenic," he replies. "I bought some sheep dip, but I do not know its composition, and I keep some rat poison under lock and key in my desk."
The coroner regards William Thomas sympathetically then takes a deep breath as if he is about to apologise for his next question. But the thought disappears before he opens his mouth, and instead, he curtly asks if his wife was jealous of Mrs Hearn.
Mr Thomas narrows his eyes and does not hesitate. "No," he says. "She had no reason to be."
"Did she mind Mrs Hearn coming to your house so often?"
"They were friends. Why would she?"
"And have you ever lent Mrs Hearn any money?"
Thomas chews his lip and seems uncertain whether to answer. "I did, sir," he says.
