The Cornish Widow, page 4
"But how...?" I ask. Elys interrupts me.
"Jory has offered to take us," she says. "They're not fishing today, and his father needs supplies from the chandlery. He's borrowing the pony and trap."
"Mrs Ponsonby won't like it," I say.
"She's already agreed," says Elys, beaming. "She had a word with me while you were out and asked if I let the cat get in the pantry. Mrs Ponsonby didn't scold me and was nice about it. But I was so distracted trying to convince her of my innocence that I pricked my finger while darning and dripped blood all over my apron. I felt sick and nearly passed out. Then, when she asked me to go into town, I said I would if someone went with me. Mrs Ponsonby said having Jory ought to be enough, but I said he had his own business to attend to. She almost suggested taking you, then checked herself. So, I took full advantage and asked anyway, leaving her with no choice."
"You clever thing," I say. "I would love to join you. An errand for you is an adventure for me. How exciting."
"Do you want to change?" she asks. "Jory will be here in ten minutes."
I shake my head. I'm tired already and worry that I might flag if I take an unnecessary trip upstairs.
"Oh, we've run out of time anyway," Elys says over her shoulder as she rushes down the corridor. "He's already here."
I walk into the parlour and stare outside. Jory has parked his trap in front of the cottage, and a bay horse is nervously pawing the ground. I look at the sky. The trap is open, and the clouds are heavy with rain. I am amazed that Mrs Ponsonby has allowed this expedition. Then Elys runs up the hallway carrying a bundle of blankets and two large umbrellas.
"Come quickly," she says. "Mrs Ponsonby is on the verge of changing her mind.
As soon as he sees me, Jory jumps from the cart, lowers the footrest, and holds my hand while Elys unceremoniously shoves me into the seat.
"Take this," she commands, thrusting the blanket towards me. I spread it over my legs while she clambers up the other side.
"Thanks, Jory," she says, smiling at him.
He winks as he lifts the reins and the horse trots away.
I recline in the seat, breathe in the sea air, and relax, feeling free of my bonds as I look forward to the trip. And as we pull away, I see Mrs Ponsonby peering anxiously behind the curtains. I wave at her, willing to forgive anything today.
The journey to Newquay passes in a flash. I sit in contemplative silence while Elys and Jory chat and soon realise that a budding romance is developing between them. I am thrilled at her evident joy, but my own loveless situation provokes feelings of jealousy. Sometimes, I consider the prospect of marrying and having a family. There is no reason why I shouldn't, although I appreciate that my condition is limiting. A future husband must love me enough to accept my lameness and the challenges it brings. On my rare darker days, I wonder if I will live the rest of my life as a spinster. Perhaps I will never marry and instead fill my days imagining what it might have been like to have a husband and children. But life is what you make it, and I will endeavour to get what I want, starting with an escape from Mrs Ponsonby's clutches. As we pass Porth and round the headland into Newquay, my thoughts turn to the opportunity at hand. I must make the most of my distance from Mrs Ponsonby as soon as Elys has finished buying almonds.
"How long have we got?" I ask as the carriage draws to a halt.
"Not long," says Elys. "I promised we'd be there and back as soon as possible."
"I'll be with the chandler for at least an hour," says Jory.
"I know," says Elys. "But then we must return right away if Connie is to come again."
Jory shrugs as if he doesn't care one way or the other. No doubt he wants Elys to himself.
"I'll meet you here at three fifteen," says Jory, allocating himself an extra fifteen minutes, which is fine by me. I have a plan that nicely fills the unexpected additional time.
"As you like," says Elys, checking her watch. "See you then."
Jory pulls away. The chandlery is by the docks, and he has left us in the centre of town. We walk down Bank Street, and Elys enters the grocers to make her purchase. I prefer to wait outside and find a low wall by the printers and perch there, watching the world go by. The threatened rain has not materialised, and the clouds have lifted. Though far from pleasant, the icy wind is bearable while I am clad in a winter coat, yet something troubles me as I gaze across the street. Something that has lapped at the periphery of my thoughts for some time and has suddenly breached my defences. The only women dressed in full-length skirts are also wearing aprons. They are, without exception, housemaids, and even the older women are sporting ankle-length dresses. I gaze at my outfit in horror. I look positively Victorian compared to everyone else. I consider the women in Porth Tregoryan who are less concerned with high fashion. But aside from the servants and anyone over the age of fifty, their clothes are markedly different from mine. I can't imagine how I have never noticed this before, but now I've realised, I stare at my clothes in embarrassment, hardly daring to stand for fear of ridicule.
I am sitting with my head in my hands when Elys finds me.
"Got them," she says, then sees my ashen face as I lower my arms. "What's wrong with you?"
"What do you wear on your half-day off?" I ask, wishing I was more observant.
"A day dress," says Elys.
"Long or short?"
"Calf length. Why?"
"I have nothing modern in my wardrobe," I say.
"That be your doing," says Elys, slipping into her childhood Cornish accent. She tries hard to speak like Mrs Ponsonby, who has no accent at all. I don't know why. The Cornish way of speaking is delightful, and I find it pleasant, although I have never picked up the accent myself.
"It's Mrs Ponsonby's fault," I correct her.
"No. It's yours," Elys repeats firmly. "Mrs Ponsonby has frequently offered to buy you new clothes. You always refuse, and she understands why. So do I, although your fears are groundless."
"My leg looks dreadful in stockings and boots," I mutter.
"But not in coloured stockings and a carefully constructed shoe," says Elys.
"I look so old-fashioned," I say. My lip wobbles and I dig my nails into my palm, trying not to cry.
"Then let's go and buy you an outfit," says Elys.
"I don't have any money, and I wanted to drop in on Peter," I say.
"Well, you can't be that bothered," she replies unsympathetically.
"Anyway, I'd die of embarrassment," I say, shuddering at the thought of a dress fitting while exposing my leg to someone I don't know.
"Connie, why don't you let me make you a dress?" offers Elys.
"Really? You can do that?"
She nods. "I'm an excellent seamstress, and you've got a lovely figure."
I smile at her kind words. Though disadvantaged in the leg department, I have a tiny waist and shapely hips. "Yes, please," I say. "What do I need to do?"
"Nothing," she says. "Do you still want to see Peter?"
I nod.
"I'll walk you to the reading room," she says, "then I'll buy some material and a pattern from the haberdasher with the housekeeping allowance. Mrs Ponsonby won't mind at all. She'll be pleased."
"Thank you," I say, grateful for her efforts. "There's no need to walk me to the reading rooms, though. It's only around the corner."
"I'm going to," says Elys. "Please don't try to stop me. I promised Mrs Ponsonby that I'd watch over you and even leaving you with Peter is a breach of trust. But I'll do it as long as you cooperate."
I sigh and mutter my agreement while feeling aggrieved and frustrated. Elys is my junior. I am a grown woman yet treated like a child, and their attention is cloying and unnatural. I know I can't walk far, but I am completely normal in all other regards. Sometimes I worry they think I'm half-witted, but I know I am not – quite the opposite. I did well at my studies and wanted to extend my education or get a job, neither of which passed the Ponsonby safety test. She refused point-blank to entertain the idea.
I resist making a scene and sweetly smile as Elys escorts me down the street and into a nearby alleyway.
ELYS OPENS THE DOOR of the reading room and strides inside, leaving me in her wake. "Look who I've brought," she says as she spies Peter by the open window. He is disposing of a dead spider and examines the withered corpse in disgust.
He turns towards me. "What are you doing here?" he asks, wearing a puzzled expression.
"Nice to see you too," I say, taken aback.
"Of course, it's good to see you, but I can't remember the last time you were in Newquay, let alone here."
"July," I say, hardly believing how long it's been since I was last in town. "Except for a trip in the autumn with Mrs Ponsonby which doesn't count," I continue.
"Right. I'll be off," says Elys. "You'll be here for a while longer, Peter?"
He nods. "At least until five o'clock."
"Good. I'll collect Connie in half an hour."
I glare at her retreating form. "It's too much, Peter," I say, feeling my hackles rise again. "I don't think I have ever felt so trapped and undermined as I do today. It's suffocating."
"What is?" he asks as he closes the window and takes a seat behind his desk. "Sit down, Connie, dear."
"No, I won't sit down," I explode. "Don't you start. If I can walk half a mile, then I can stand unsupported for a few moments. What's wrong with everybody?"
Peter gazes at me, blue eyes creased in concern. "I was only trying to be polite," he says. "And I'd offer a chair to anyone, male or female." My anger disappears in a flash, and I inwardly curse my bad-tempered outburst. "I'm sorry," I say. "I shouldn't have shouted. You've been a good friend."
"Tell me what's wrong," he says. "It might help."
I sigh, and despite my previous objection, I lower myself into the chair. I'm already tired. I want to share my frustrations with Peter, but I don't know where to start. "Life is passing me by," I murmur.
"Why? What has changed since last week? You've always seemed perfectly content."
"I know. Up to now, it's been enough to potter around and fill my days with reading. It's all I've ever known. But I feel increasingly trapped. My world is tiny, Peter, and look at me – look at this dress."
He doesn't argue and chews his lip in contemplation.
"You knew, didn't you? Do people talk about me?"
"Everyone I know is fond of you. They sympathise and understand."
"Understand what? I'm twenty-five, Peter, and they've made me into an overgrown child. Why? Stephen Pemberton only has one leg, and he lives alone and works for a living. And what's more, he's two years younger than me."
"It's not you, Connie," says Peter. "Mrs Ponsonby is very protective. She always has been, but there's nothing sinister about it. She only wants what's best for you."
"I'm her prisoner," I say, and my face crumples. Salty tears spill down my face and drip into my lap. If I weren't so upset, I'd be mortified at my lack of self-control, but now the tears have started, I can't stop them.
"You poor thing," says Peter, producing a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and passing it over. "I didn't realise you felt this way."
"I don't know how to make it stop," I say, finally confronting my unspoken fears. "I know I can lead a normal life, and I am usually optimistic about my prospects, but today has been a shock. I'm a child in a woman's body with barely any control over my life, and unless something changes, I will never escape it. No wonder my dreams are so peculiar."
Peter reaches for my hand, and I hope he will ignore my talk of dreams. He is the one person I have told, and he thinks it's all in my imagination.
"Can't you talk to Mrs Ponsonby?" he says.
"I have – endlessly. She refuses virtually any request that takes me away from her prying eyes. She nearly changed her mind today."
"What would you have her do?"
"Give me my freedom," I say. "Let me come into Newquay alone or allow me to travel on a train."
"Could you manage alone?"
I shrug my shoulders. "Not with luggage," I say, eventually.
"What would you do if you ran into trouble?"
"You win. I need a companion. But Elys could come along."
"She needs to keep house. Would Mrs Ponsonby go with you?"
"In my worst dreams. She wouldn't let me do anything worth doing."
Peter picks up a pencil and chews the end while tapping on the table with his other hand. He doesn't speak for a moment.
"Do you know Lewannick?" he asks.
"No. What is it?"
"It's a little village not far from Bude."
"I've never been there."
"No reason why you should, but that's where Alice Thomas lived."
"So?"
"You remember I said I'm going to the inquest in Plymouth with Malcolm?"
"Yes."
"It's about her murder."
"Was she murdered?"
Peter frowned. "I told you that yesterday. Weren't you listening?"
"I don't think you mentioned murder. How remarkable."
"Isn't it?" he says, leaning forward. "Would you like to come?"
I stare at him and shake my head. "Haven't you understood a word that I've said? I can barely go to the bottom of the garden without permission from Mrs Ponsonby, much less attend a court in Plymouth of all places. I don't think I've ever ventured that far."
"What if my mother took us?"
"Why would she?"
"Because when I told her that Malcolm invited me to join him, she suggested we go together. Her sister, my aunt Veronica, lives in Plymouth and will put us up."
"She doesn't know me, and neither does Malcolm for that matter. Why would he tolerate my presence?"
"Don't worry about that. It's a public inquest, and Malcolm won't care one way or the other. It's more a matter of whether my mother can persuade Mrs Ponsonby that you will be safe in her care."
"I doubt it," I say, but my mind is already whirring. Peter's mother, Isla Tremayne, is a regular attendee at church and secretary of the Newquay Women's Institute. Mrs Ponsonby is also on the committee and holds her in high regard.
"Shall I ask her?" he says, registering my unspoken interest.
I nod. "Do you think she will go along with it?" I ask.
"Yes. Mother feels, well – she will want to help."
"You were about to say that she feels sorry for me."
"She understands," says Peter. "It's likely to be the week after next," he continues.
I look heavenwards and pretend to think. "I have no engagements that week," I say, allowing a flicker of hope to ignite. Tell me a little more about this inquest, just in case your mother can perform miracles."
"I know little about it," Peter admits. "Most of what I've heard is hearsay. Malcolm knows a lot of policemen and has more information than he ought to. I saw him earlier, and he says something interesting is about to come out, and I should keep an eye on the newspapers. That reminds me, I've got a couple put aside," he continues, eyeing his watch.
"You've got plenty of time until the shops shut," I say. "And Elys won't be back for a while. Tell me what you know."
"ALICE THOMAS WAS A farmer's wife," says Peter, leaning back in his chair. "She married a chap called William – quite a dour character, as I understand it. Anyway, they lived in Lewannick in a place called..." Peter breaks from the conversation, opens his desk drawer and removes a jotter which he flips open. "Trenhorne Farm," he says triumphantly.
"You've taken notes," I say. "I didn't know you were that interested."
"I've always found crime fascinating," says Peter. "Anyway, Mr and Mrs Thomas were friendly with a woman called Annie Hearn. She lived in Trenhorne House with her aunt and her sister until both women died, and she found herself alone. Mr and Mrs Thomas befriended Annie, hoping to ease her loneliness. They often visited and took her for occasional trips and treats. William's mother stayed at the farm the week before Alice fell ill, and the couple made plans to drive her back to her home in Bude. They invited Annie along for the ride. She accepted, and they dropped the mother off and called into Bude to look around. The two women went shopping while William visited the barber for a haircut, and at five o'clock, they met in Littlejohns Tea Rooms."
"Very nice," I say, thinking about my stomach. I would give a lot for a nice cup of tea and a cream cake right now. Supper time seems a long way away.
"It was," says Peter. "William Thomas ordered tea, cakes and bread and butter. Annie contributed a packet of salmon sandwiches and some chocolate cake that she'd made earlier."
"Quite a feast," I say.
Peter ignores me. "After tea, they parted company again," he continues. "William went to the Globe hotel and started feeling nauseous, but after a tot of whisky, his sickness vanished. Alice was not so fortunate. She suddenly felt unwell and complained about a sickly-sweet taste in her mouth. Alice bore the discomfort until they met up again, then asked for some fruit to take the peculiar taste away. William found a shop and bought her some bananas, but it didn't help. The drive back was eventful. Alice was so poorly that William had to stop the car several times so she could vomit at the roadside. Unfortunately for Alice, William had a business appointment near Launceston on the way back. While he was busy, poor Alice was sick in the public toilets with a concerned Annie helping her afflicted friend."
"How awful," I say. "Did they get back to Lewannick?"
"Yes, eventually. Annie helped Alice to bed, and William Thomas immediately sent for the doctor, who assumed that she had food poisoning. Annie stayed at the farmhouse for a few days to help her friend. Alice recovered briefly, and then her symptoms returned with a vengeance. She was so ill that the doctor arranged for her immediate admission to Plymouth hospital, where she died. And that is when they diagnosed arsenic poisoning," says Peter, closing his notebook and slamming it on the desk for effect.
"Poor Alice," I say, staring into the distance. I know little about science, but I can imagine how painful it must be to die from poison. And knowing that someone thought her life expendable is too dreadful to contemplate. Did Alice spend her dying days agonising over who wanted to end her life? I shudder and shake the thoughts away before turning to Peter. "How do they know it was murder?" I ask.
