Property of a Lady (27 page)

‘And he wouldn’t mind us going out to lunch with Michael?’

‘Certainly not.’

‘I think he’d have liked Michael, don’t you?’ said Beth, and then, in a rare show of emotion, leaned over in the car and put her arms round her mother’s neck. She smelt sweet and young and fresh, and Nell thought: oh God, I can’t bear the thought of Christmas without Brad. I can’t bear that he won’t see Beth laughing and enjoying a Christmas party, and opening presents . . .

But she hugged Beth back and said, yes, Dad would have liked Michael very much, and the shop’s open day would be great and had Beth remembered her gym shoes?

When the longing for Brad overwhelmed her like this, the only thing to do was focus on the practicalities of life.

The archives office had births, deaths and marriages on microfiche. Nell typed in a request for William Lee and, asked to provide a date within five years, added 1887 to 1892.

The microfiche ticked and scrolled along, and Nell waited, her heart pounding. It was absurd to feel apprehensive; it could not matter very much whether William Lee had died of honourable old age or succumbed to some peculiar and unpronounceable disease in a far-flung outpost of the empire.

Here it was now. A smudgy facsimile of a death certificate. The date was January 1889. William Lee was described as a widower, and his wife’s name was Elizabeth. This all fitted. He had been born in 1850 in the County of Shropshire, and under the column for profession was the word ‘Gentleman’. This fitted as well.

The cause of his death was given as dislocation of the neck and severance of the spinal cord.

The place of his death was Shrewsbury Gaol.

William Lee had been hanged.

It should not have come as such a shock – the clues had all been there – and yet Nell was sat staring at the screen for several minutes. Then she entered a new search request for Elizabeth Lee. This time she knew the exact year of death. 1888.

And there it was. Elizabeth Alexandra Lee, born 1858. Wife of William Lee in the County of Shropshire. The cause of death was given as trauma to skull.

The facts were as clear as if they had been printed on the screen. William Lee had been hanged at Shrewsbury Gaol for murdering his wife. And three months later, his seven-year-old daughter, Elvira, had been confined to Brank Asylum, where she had lived for the rest of her life.

TWENTY-ONE

F
rom the archives to the newspaper offices was a logical step mentally, and a relatively brief drive physically.

It was not a very pleasant drive though; the sky was iron grey, and a bitter sleet drove in spiteful flurries against the windscreen. Had it been a morning like this when William Lee was hanged? As he was led into the execution chamber, had he glimpsed a leaden sky through prison windows, or had his thoughts been only for his daughter left behind? Nell tried to imagine the small Elvira Lee on that morning and could only see Beth’s bewildered little face when she had to tell her about Brad. Beth had not cried when she knew about her father’s death; she had sunk into a small, frozen huddle of confused misery. Had Elvira done the same thing? But what about Elvira’s blindness? She had talked to Harriet about that little tree-planting ceremony – she had described how she had worn a scarlet hat and scarf that morning, so she had had her sight then. When had she lost it? And how?

The newspaper offices were warm and welcoming after the bleak morning. Nell found the report of the case quite quickly; the
Marston Lacy and Bryn Marston Advertiser
had reported on it with diligence and commendable restraint. The article explained that on a night in October 1888, William Lee, for reasons best known to himself, had woken his wife from sleep and killed her by smashing in her skull. Then he had pushed her body down the stairs of their house, Mallow House in Marston Lacy, clearly hoping the fall would inflict other injuries and disguise the blow he had dealt:

‘Police investigations, although thorough, did not immediately encompass the hapless widower, and his assertion that a common housebreaker had been in the house was accepted.

After his arrest, William Lee held by this account of a burglar throughout the trial, repeating his description of the man, while admitting he had only seen a fleeting glimpse of him. ‘A thickset man,’ he said. ‘Pallid of complexion and with deep-set eyes.’

A search was made, but no one answering this description was ever found.’

Thickset, pale and with deep eyes, thought Nell, rereading the description. It was exactly how Michael had described the man he had seen that day in the house. It was Beth’s description and Ellie Harper’s as well. She repressed a shiver and read on:

‘Until this tragedy, William Lee was a respected and well-liked gentleman in Marston Lacy, known to be scholarly by nature. After the death of his wife, he continued to go about his lawful occasions for several weeks, his behaviour exciting no suspicion. He was sometimes seen with his small daughter – they were forlorn figures, people said; he, tall and thin and clothed in black, the child solemn and pale, clinging to her papa’s hand as if she was afraid of losing him.

Lee even took delivery of a long-case moon-phase clock from the workshop of the local clockmaker, Brooke Crutchley, such clock having been commissioned in the autumn of 1888 as a Christmas gift for the ill-starred Elizabeth. Mr Crutchley himself oversaw the delivery and installation of the clock, and a human note is added in that one local resident reports how, on leaving Mallow House afterwards, Mr Crutchley was seen to be visibly distressed.

But eventually, William Lee was arrested on the 30th of November, and found guilty of wilful murder by a jury of his peers on the 21st of December at Shrewsbury Crown Court. His execution took place in Shrewsbury Gaol on 11th January 1889.

William Lee was a scion of the well-known Shropshire family of landowners. He married Elizabeth Marston in 1879, on which occasion the entire village of Marston Lacy was treated to a celebration supper at the village hall to commemorate the event.’

Brooke Crutchley again, thought Nell. It was odd how he kept cropping up. Why had he been so particularly upset that day? Surely clockmakers and squires did not move in the same circles in that era? He could not have known the Lee family, other than as customers.

The paper did not refer to the small Elvira, but this was most likely because children were not regarded as suitable subjects for newspapers. Nell thought the laws restricting journalists had been more stringent in those days.

She was about to request a printout of the article, when a small block of text on the screen caught her eye. It was at the foot of the same page as the report of William Lee’s death and was enclosed in a box, in the way of advertisements in those days:

‘Messrs Grimley and Shrike, solicitors, request information leading to the finding of descendants and relatives of the Lee family of the County of Shropshire. Or of descendants and relatives of Elizabeth Lee, née Marston, formerly of Mallow House in Marston Lacy, in the County of Shropshire.

It is also hereby notified that the said Mallow House, at the final request of William Lee, henceforth be known as Charect House.

Messrs Grimley & Shrike, Solicitors and Commissioners for Oaths, High Street, Marston Lacy.’

So it had been William who had changed the name of his house. And had Grimley and Shrike wanted to trace family connections because Elvira Lee had been certified as insane, or because she was a minor? Nell made a note of the solicitors, in case the firm still existed, and went out. As she drove home, she thought again that she could bear knowing more about Brooke Crutchley.

Where would she find him, though?

When Nell got back to the shop, there was a letter from the insurance company saying the annual premium on the buildings was due in January, and asking if she would confirm the exact date of her purchase of the premises. Nell had been able to take over the existing buildings insurance from the previous owners, paying the remaining eight months of the premium. It had been an arrangement agreeable to everyone involved, but the policy expired immediately after Christmas and the new premium was almost due.

The insurers asked that, because of the Christmas post, she phone or email the information, and the letter was dated a week ago so it had better be dealt with today – it was already the 17th. Nell could remember the date she had moved in, but the actual completion of the purchase had taken place a couple of weeks earlier and she was not sure of the precise day. She would have to dig out the conveyance.

She put the printouts about William Lee in a drawer until she could show them to Michael and smiled, remembering how his voice seemed almost to light up when his interest was caught. She might phone him this evening – no, better not. It was the last couple of days of the Oxford term, and there would be various events he would have to attend. She would scan the article on to the computer and email it to him.

The conveyance was in the office safe with the title deeds. Nell had turned a small room at the back of the shop into an office. It overlooked the courtyard and the workshop. She was hoping she could afford to have the workshop painted and the courtyard resurfaced by next spring so that she could set up her antique weekends, but it depended on how business went. Still, Christmas was traditionally a good time, and she was going to have a display of Regency miniatures and some early Victorian jewellery for the shop’s Open Day. The jewellery had come from a house sale in Powys, and there were some really beautiful pieces, so some of it might sell for Christmas gifts.

The office was strewn with trade magazines, and the shelves were stacked with reference books. She unlocked the safe and found the title deeds in their box file. Earlier documents were in a perspex folder to protect them, but the more recent ones were at the front. Land registration, various surveys, abstract of title . . . Here was the conveyance with the date of legal completion: 11th January. The date jabbed at a memory in her mind – what was it? It was the date when William Lee had been hanged. That was a macabre coincidence if ever there was one.

Nell wrote down the date, then started to fold the papers carefully back in place, wanting to keep them in sequence. She had bought the premises from a couple who were retiring and who had run a small coffee house-cum-craft business. It had not needed very much work to adapt it for antiques, although some general modernization had been necessary. The old couple had been here for thirty years; they told her that before they came the place had belonged to a carpenter – one of the old types of cabinetmakers. Lovely pieces he had made and sold, they said, and how nice to think the place would again be used to house beautiful furniture.

Here was the conveyance from the cabinetmaker to the coffee house couple. He had been here for a long time, as well. Nell turned back to find the date he had bought it, briefly curious. He had not bought it; he had inherited it from his father in 1940. There was a transfer of title. It had been drawn up by Grimley & Shrike, the solicitors who had advertised for descendants of William or Elizabeth Lee.

She turned over another document. It was an earlier transfer of title, and the names—

Something seemed to swoop down and press hard on the top of her head.

In 1897 the ownership of these premises had been transferred to a man called Josiah Crutchley, as being: ‘The only known relative or descendant of Brooke Crutchley, on whom a presumption of death had been declared,
juris et de jure
, at Shropshire County Court.’

Michael had sent several emails to Jack and had four times tried the mobile number. On the last attempt there had been a different message, saying the service was discontinued. Michael had no idea what this meant, unless it was something to do with them having left the US and reached Paris.

He was worried, but in a fairly low-key fashion. It was not absolutely vital that he stopped Jack and Liz bringing Ellie to Marston Lacy – it sounded as if the nightmares had stopped, and the theory that they stemmed from Alice’s stories was credible. All the same, there was something peculiar about Charect House, and if there was any chance that Ellie’s nightmares might start up again she must not come within a hundred miles of it. And how about Beth’s eerie abduction? There was no explanation for that at all.

At intervals he thought about what might still lie behind the attic wall in Charect House, and Harriet Anstey’s words ran in and out of his mind.

Whoever reads this – whoever you are – please help me, she had written. Please somehow break down the attic wall and get to me . . .

I’m sorry, Harriet, said Michael silently. I would have got you out if I could. Then he thought – hell’s boots, now I’m apologizing to someone who died sixty years ago!

He attended the Dean’s end of term lunch, at which there was the promised goose, served in lavish portions, then went to a drinks party the same evening, given by Owen from the History Department. It was midnight before he got back to his rooms, where the porter greeted him with the information that Wilberforce had got himself stuck in a section of panelling in the Bursar’s office, the Bursar having taken the opportunity afforded by the Christmas break to commission some refurbishment of the wainscoting. Nobody knew how Wilberforce had got into the Bursar’s rooms, but it appeared he had become wedged half in and half out of the section of wall. According to the porter he had screeched fit to disturb the whole of Oriel, and Corpus Christi and Merton as well, and had finally been rescued by two of Michael’s second years, whom he had scratched.