Виктория Холт - Daughter of Deceit

“No. I thought it would worry my son and my husband.”

“Did you think it was unsafe to leave the pills there where Mrs. Claverham could reach them so easily?”

“I did consider that, but since she needed the pills immediately and might not be able to ring the bell for a servant to get them for her … and there might not be a servant in the kitchen at that time to hear the bell, I thought it better to leave things as they were.”

“So you decided not to do anything about it, and the pills were left in the cabinet, and there was always a glass and jug of water ready for use?”

“I was wrong perhaps. But I understood that it was very necessary for her to take the pills immediately the pain started. I knew that if they were not available, my daughter-in-law would be thrown into a panic … which could, of course, bring on the pain.”

“Thank you, Lady Constance.”

Dr. Doughty was recalled.

“How long did it take for the pills to dissolve?” they wanted to know.

“A matter of seconds.”

“How long did it take before they had an effect?”

“It could vary.”

“On the pain?”

“On that and other things. The state of the patient’s health at the time. The mental state …”

“And the effect of the pills could have produced drowsiness … forgetfulness?”

“Indeed it could.”

“So Mrs. Claverham could possible have taken two pills, and then another two in, say, five minutes?”

“That is possible.”

“And perhaps in her agitation let fall more than two into the water?”

“That is also possible.”

“Thank you, Dr. Doughty.”

We waited in trepidation. Marie-Christine had taken my hand and was holding it firmly. I knew what was in our minds. What would the verdict be? Murder against some person or persons unknown? Roderick? Myself?

How much attention had been paid to Mabel’s account?

She had been discredited, but what impression had her words left behind? Lady Constance’s words had had a great effect, and she had spoken in such a precise, authoritative manner—in great contrast to Mabel. I had felt the mood of the court changing as she spoke. I was sickened by the thought of what might be awaiting us. I thought of all the probing questions … the answers which could seem damaging. I thought of the danger to Roderick … and us all.

I could not help remembering that day when Lisa Fennell had fallen under my mother’s carriage, when she had forced her way into our lives. And now she was dead, and still threatening, from the grave.

When the relief came it was overpowering. Lady Constance’s evidence had carried great weight. Mabel’s had been dismissed.

The verdict of the coroner’s court was Accidental Death.

It is six years since that day in the courtroom, but it still comes back to me, and I will find myself shuddering with fear. There has been so much happiness in these last years, but it has not been completely unclouded.

Over us all at Leverson has hung the shadow of doubt. There have been times in the night when I have awakened suddenly to find myself back in the past. I will cry out. Roderick comforts me. He does not need to ask what haunts me. He will say: “It is over, my darling. It is finished. We have to forget.”

How did it happen? I ask myself. How did she die? Who put those pills into the glass? Was it Lisa herself? I cannot accept that, however much I try.

I cling to Roderick. He is there … safe … beside me. I am comforted, but I cannot stop my thoughts.

I say to myself: It must have been Lisa … not wittingly, of course. It must have been as Lady Constance had suggested in her evidence, which had been a turning point. She had spoken with such conviction.

The verdict had been a blessing to us all, who had been under the cloud of suspicion. It was an end to the matter … no, not an end, as we learned. But there would be no more probing, no more awkward questions asked. It was a kind of peace, punctured by our consciences. We had wanted her to go … and she had.

We had come out of that courtroom intoxicated with relief. But the doubts remained, and they had been with us these six years.

One year after that verdict, Roderick and I had married. What had happened had had its effect on us all. Marie-Christine had been overjoyed, but she seemed to brood now and then, and there were secrets in her eyes. She could no longer be called a child. There was a shadow over her as with us all.

Roderick and I have a son and a daughter. Roger is four years old, Catherine nearly three. They are beautiful children, and when I watch them playing in the gardens or riding round the paddock on their ponies, I am almost content.

Then I go into the house and pass that room which had been Lisa’s. There is no visible trace of her there … but somehow she remains.

My father visits us now and then. He is very proud of his grandchildren, and he has often told me what a happy day it was for him when I came looking for him. He gets on very well with Charlie, and I think they often talk of my mother.

I was deeply touched when he gave me the statue of the Dancing Maiden. He wanted me to have it, he told me. It was his dearest possession. I was loth to take it from him, but he insisted. “I used to feel that she was there when I looked at it,” he told me. “It has been a great comfort to me. But now I have my daughter … and grandchildren. And it is fitting that you should have it.”

It stands in my room. I can see my mother when I look at it. He has caught some likeness … something which is indefinably her. I fancy when I look at it that she is near, smiling, well pleased because I have come through my troubles to the husband I love … and my children.

Lady Constance and I are the best of friends. Her great joy is in her grandchildren. Her nature is not naturally a warm one but occasionally the deep affection she has for me overflows and is apparent; and there is no doubt of her love for the children.

When at length Leverson Manor became our home, Marie-Christine was very contented.

Her interest in archaeology became a passion. At this time she is very friendly with a young archaeologist whom she met through Fiona and Jack. I believe they may soon become engaged.

But the memory of Lisa lingers on, even with Marie-Christine. I wonder if it will always be so. Everyone in the house is aware of it. I know this through Gertie.

A little while ago I had a revealing talk with her. She said: “I was worried when silly Mabel started talking in front of all those people.”

Her words sent a tremor of fear through me, but I said calmly: “She was soon proved to be unreliable.”

“Well, she could have gone too far. She nearly did.”

“Your evidence showed how unbalanced she was, and when she was called back she proved it.”

“She must have heard the servants talking.”

“Talking about … ?”

“Well, they all knew that you was engaged to Mr. Roderick at one time and it was broken off because you thought he was your brother. Then he got married and you found out he wasn’t your brother after all, and you ought to have got married.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Servants always know everything. They pick up bits here and bits there. Then they put it all together and it adds up. They like you. They was looking forward to you and Mr. Roderick getting married. They couldn’t really think much of her. They’d had to put up with Lady Constance all those years, and when I told them you took the blame for that bust, they thought that was really nice. Well, Lady Constance is a great lady … but you can have enough of that. But that Mrs. Claverham … well, she wasn’t enough of a lady. We wanted something in between.”

“You mean … they knew all that, and they didn’t betray it?”

“Well, they answered the questions. They weren’t going to say more than they was asked for.”

“Except Mabel.”

“Well, she wouldn’t know much. She’d picked up bits in her batty way, and she’d got it all muddled.”

“Gertie,” I said, “your evidence made such a difference.”

“I meant it to. I didn’t want trouble no more than any of them did. We didn’t want anything going wrong in the house. Perhaps new people coming … and then what would have become of everyone? And … I never forgot what you did about that bust. I would have been out then … but for you.”

I said: “And what did they really think about Mrs. Claverham’s death?”

“Oh, they reckon she took it herself. It was a mistake, they think. She’d forgotten she had already had it. That’s what they all thought, didn’t they?”

I understood. That was how they wanted it to be. What did they really think was the truth? And did they often think about it?

The shadow of doubt lay across the whole household.

It was a beautiful spring day. I was sitting in the garden with Lady Constance, as I often did. The children were playing on the lawn and I noticed how her eyes followed them.

“They are beautiful children,” she said. “I can see both you and Roderick in them.”

“Can you? I have searched for a resemblance in vain.”

“It’s there. Thank you, my dear. I am so glad you came. I often think back to that time we spent together in our deep dark hole. Now all these people are marvelling at the antiquity as they cross that floor where once we sat, wondering if it was the end for us. It was a turning point in my life, I think.”

“It was the beginning of our friendship, and I was grateful for that.”

“For me it was a revelation.”

Catherine came toddling up to us to show us a daisy she had picked.

“Is that for me?” asked Lady Constance.

Catherine shook her head and held it out to me.

“I have found one, Grandmama.” That was from Roger, who had run up to us. “This is for you.”

I was touched to see her pleasure.

I thought then how completely happy we should be. I glanced over my shoulder at the window of that room which had been Lisa’s. I could almost imagine I saw her there. It was often so. It is six years since it happened, I said to myself. Will it always be like this?

The children had run off.

“It is good that everything turned out as it did,” said Lady Constance.

“We have been happy,” I replied.

“As we never could have been if … We have to forget that time, Noelle. It grows farther and farther from us. But I know you can’t forget … entirely.”

“Can you?”

She shook her head. “I remember at times. It comes back and there it stays. I say: Go away. You have caused enough trouble in your lifetime. I am glad … glad that she died, Noelle. It was best for her … and best for us all.”

“She might have been cured.”

“She would never have been completely well. I could not bear to have been without these grandchildren. There will be Claverhams here for generations to come. It is the future that is important, but I remember, and shall go on remembering.”

She lay back in her chair and did not speak. For some time there was silence, and when I looked, her eyes were closed.

I thought she was sleeping, but after a while I began to grow alarmed.

I spoke to her gently. There was no answer. I laid a hand on her arm. She did not move.

I summoned help. We got her to bed and called the doctor.

She had had a heart attack, but she recovered after a few days. She was still very weak and Dr. Doughty said she must rest.

He talked rather seriously to us. “She’ll have to go carefully,” he said. “She’s doing too much. Make her rest. I know it is not easy to make Lady Constance do anything she doesn’t want to, but I think it is necessary, and you will have to be firm.”

“Do you think she is going to get well?”

“The heart is a vital organ, you know. She had a big shock at the time of the first Mrs. Claverham’s death. I know she appeared to weather the storm, but I noticed it had an effect on her. Make sure she goes very slowly, and let me know at once if there is any sign of trouble.”

She had certainly grown frail. She stayed in her room a great deal. I used to take the children to see her each afternoon. That was the highlight of her day.

It was evening. The children had come to say good night to her before their nurse took them off to bed.

She said: “Stay with me, Noelle.”