The Judge's Daughter (38 page)

‘He should be bloody shot at dawn,’ shouted Fred from the back.

Eva thumped him and Agnes told him to be quiet, wondering how he would react were he to discover his relationship with the object of his indignation.

Helen smiled. ‘I’ll put that one on the list, Fred. Any further suggestions should be made anonymously on postcards and sent to my solicitor. Thank you all for coming. Louisa was
special and I shall miss her for the rest of my days.’

Harry pulled her into his arms and allowed her to sob on his shoulder. That bloody judge wanted a boot up the backside; he might have helped save Harry from prison, but he was as bent as a
nine-bob note. Judges shouldn’t be bent – their reliability and moral strength were the reasons for their very existence. This woman in his arms was the one to whom Harry owed
everything. He whispered into her hair. ‘Hey – I’ve got a secret.’

She looked up at him. ‘Oh?’

‘Me and Mags got wed the same day that . . . The day the baby was born.’

‘The day Louisa died.’

‘Yes. It was family and witnesses only – Mags hates fuss.’

Helen nodded. ‘Congratulations, Harry. Louisa would have approved of that. She would have wanted us all to go on in a fashion as near to normal as possible.’

‘Don’t tell anyone. We’re going to have a party, but we’ll wait a while now. My mam’s like a dog with two tails – thinks I’ve landed a gradely
catch.’

‘So has Mags,’ Helen whispered. ‘You will make a brilliant accountant one of these days.’

‘I’m always here for you, no matter what. Remember that. No matter what.’

‘I’ll remember,’ she promised.

A fortnight later, Millicent Louisa Spencer was released into the care of her sister. She came home not in the majestic Bentley, but in a very small Morris. A beautiful nursery had been
prepared, all pastel colours, teddy bears and pretty pictures on the walls. The crib was next to Helen’s bed, because she intended not to allow Millie out of her sight until she had gained
weight and strength.

After three days, the baby, almost a month old, met her father for the first time. He looked her over, grunted, poured a brandy.

‘Would you like to hold her?’ Helen asked.

‘Not at the moment.’

‘Her name’s Millicent.’

‘Yes, I believe you mentioned that.’

Helen lowered her tone. ‘Not a boy, though, eh? You’ll have to work fast to find another wife, you know. After all, you left all this business very late, didn’t you?’

He offered no reply.

‘And you could carry on forever having girls. The father dictates the gender, or so I am told. You might take four or five wives in some countries and still have only daughters.’

‘Go away,’ he said.

She sat down, the child clasped to her chest. ‘You know what’s in Mabel Turnbull’s letter, don’t you, Pater?’

His face was suddenly deep crimson. ‘I do not.’

‘You know. Had you not known, you would have kicked me out months ago. So. You are in a delicate position. And I shall rear this child. You will pay me. Then bugger off to your yacht
– I hope you drown.’

He maintained eye contact with her, but remained silent.

‘You will leave this house, not I, certainly not Millie. Try sailing round the Cape – that should shorten your life by a year or two. You’ve a stroke coming – your face
is a dreadful colour.’ Helen stood up and carried her precious bundle out of the office. She walked through the house until she reached her own area, locked herself in and gave Millie her
bottle. Sometimes, her father seemed beyond the reach of reason, and when he was in such a state, she believed him capable of doing harm. In a blind rage, he might forget about letters and
threats.

The baby finished her feed and was congratulated for consuming three whole ounces. Back in her crib, she slept, one hand on her face, the other clutching a blanket. This child would hang on
– she had no intention of giving up on life.

Helen herself drifted in and out of sleep. Nights were fractured by Millie, who needed feeding little and often, so her guardian had to snatch rest whenever the opportunity arose. In her dream,
she opened the package and read the contents to a gathering of people in the drawing room. A little girl in the corner began to cry – was that Millie?

Her eyes flew open. It was strange how often sense arrived during sleep. The letters would hurt Millie. He knew that. With her heart beating wildly, Helen Spencer leaned over the sleeping child.
Father was not a stupid man. He was rash, but not deficient. Even if he had not already spotted his oldest daughter’s Achilles heel, it would come to him. The whole family would suffer once
the secret became public. ‘We are still vulnerable,’ she told the baby.

Had she been the only one involved, Helen could have carried the burden of truth, but Millie had her whole life ahead of her and the sheet needed to be clean. Why on earth should a small child
suffer because of the sins of her father? ‘I have to talk to someone,’ Helen whispered. The weight was suddenly too great for one person to bear; it needed to be shared. There was just
one name on Helen’s list of possibles. It had to be done and it had to be done today.

Pop was fuller than ever of his own importance. Granada Television had taken his plans for Lambert House, framed them, and placed them on a wall between studios. Anyone might
have believed that his name was lit up in Piccadilly Circus, thought Agnes. She was pleased for him, yet worried about him. Fred Grimshaw needed an aim in life, but he also needed to take things at
a slower pace. He and Eva had taken David in his pram for a walk through Skirlaugh Fall. Here was an opportunity for vacuuming without waking the baby, but Agnes simply sat and flicked through a
magazine. House-proud was one thing; obsessive was another.

Helen arrived. It occurred to Agnes that she had simply swapped one baby for another, but she smiled and greeted her visitors gladly. Helen needed help and Agnes had made a promise.

Oscar bounded in first. He did three circuits of the living room, then a lap of honour at a slower pace.

‘He misses Louisa,’ said Helen. ‘Even though she seldom fed him or took him out, he knew who his mistress was.’ She sat down.

Agnes noted the expression on Helen’s face and waited for her to speak again. To fill the gap, she went into the kitchen to fetch coffee and biscuits. Oscar, hearing the noise of dishes
and cutlery, performed another circuit of the room in the hope of winning a treat. He accepted a few morsels, then went to claim his customary place on the hearthrug in the living room.

Agnes placed a tray on the coffee table. ‘Well?’ she asked.

‘Let me sort my head out. I’ll tell you in a minute.’

They drank coffee while Millie slept.

Suddenly, Helen leapt to her feet. ‘I’ll be back,’ she promised.

Agnes scratched her head. ‘You were going to tell me something—’

‘Yes. I’ll be back.’ She rushed out of the house, leaving Agnes standing in her doorway and staring stupidly at the disappearing woman, baby and dog. Perhaps she would do the
vacuuming after all.

Agnes answered the phone. ‘Lucy? Whatever’s the matter?’

Breathlessly, Lucy tripped over the words. ‘She’s gone wild-eyed again – Helen Spencer, I mean. George went to the bank with her – he’s nominated second key-holder
for the box. She’s bringing her letters to you. Agnes, she’s got Louisa’s baby with her – she isn’t fit to mind the dog. I thought I’d better let you know. I
thought she’d got over all the nonsense.’

Agnes dropped into a chair. ‘She was here earlier on, said she wanted to talk to me, then disappeared in a rush.’ Poor Helen Spencer seemed to have crammed a whole life into the past
few months. She had travelled through teenage fixation, had attempted to grow up and cope with her father, was now in charge of a baby girl. But to remove from a vault items she considered beyond
value? There was something afoot once more. Helen had been wrong with Denis, wrong at Lucy’s wedding, wrong at the Lambert House party. Was she off the tracks once more? ‘Thanks for
letting me know.’

‘Be ready, love – she’s off her head again. I’d better go – don’t want anyone to overhear me. Be careful.’

Agnes replaced the receiver and waited. She knew all about waiting, realized that it could become an active occupation – she’d studied it before going into proper labour with David.
But she didn’t feel like counting flowers on the wallpaper, so she brought in her washing from the line and was engaged in folding nappies when Helen arrived. She was, indeed, wild-eyed.

‘Sit down.’ Agnes took the baby. ‘What’s the matter, Helen?’

Helen remained silent for a while. She remembered the therapist’s words – ‘get out of your father’s life’ – but would it not be better to get him to leave?
What must be done to make him go?

‘Helen? I asked you a question. What’s up?’

‘I don’t know. Well, I do know, but I could be mistaken. Millie has taken away my insurance.’

‘Ah.’ After waiting again, Agnes asked, ‘How?’

‘By being born.’

‘Right.’

‘It could ruin her life.’

‘I see.’ Agnes couldn’t see, but she decided to agree with everything while Helen was in this state.

‘Read them and hide them.’ She placed a package on a small table.

Agnes swallowed hard.

‘They’re possibly useless now. That letter of Mabel Turnbull’s could ruin Millie’s chances in life. If I went public with that stuff, my sister could be pointed at and
bullied. It wouldn’t be fair. I have to manufacture a different plan.’

Agnes followed her to the door. ‘Take the edge off for me,’ she begged. Denis had gone to the yacht with Judge Spencer and would not be back until quite late. ‘Tell me what
it’s about. I want to hear it before I read it.’

Helen looked at Agnes as if Agnes were the crazy one. ‘The murder, of course. Hadn’t you worked it out? He killed my mother. After killing her, he carried on womanizing instead of
remarrying. When he got older and ugly, no one wanted him. Until Louisa, who had her reasons.’

Agnes closed her gaping mouth with an audible clash of incisors. A judge who sentenced lesser mortals was a murderer himself? ‘Are you all right to look after Millie?’ was all she
managed to say.

‘What? Of course I am. And if anyone tries to take her away from me – ever – I shall follow the same path as my father. She’s mine and I’ll kill anyone who makes a
move on her.’

As if the threat might be an immediate one, Agnes stepped back.

Helen looked her half-sister up and down, ordered her not to be upset, reclaimed Millie and left the house.

The car drove off. Agnes stared at the sealed envelope. It was a huge brown packet with an old-fashioned seal set in red wax. Although the seal was already broken, she was wary of opening so
fierce-looking a bundle. It was a legal thing: it contained the thoughts, memories and feelings of a nanny who was dead. ‘Nothing to do with me,’ she mumbled nervously. Her Catholic
upbringing had taught her that the confessional was sacred, that no secrets could be divulged by the priest – wasn’t the law similar? No, because this was Helen’s property and she
had opted to share it. Even so, it didn’t seem right.

David woke and demanded attention. When he was fed, loved, cleaned and bedded, Oscar arrived. Agnes played with the dog in her back garden, but she stayed near the door. David had to be minded,
as did that flaming package. She half wished that someone would come along and steal it, but she knew she would be unable to live with that.

The phone sounded again, its shrill bell almost making Agnes jump out of her skin. ‘Ah, Lucy,’ she said nervously.

‘What happened?’ asked the disembodied voice.

‘Nothing.’

‘Did she come?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you read it? What did it say? I won’t tell anyone, honestly.’

Agnes took a couple of deep breaths. ‘I’ve no idea. It’s still sitting on the table where she left it. Denis is at the yacht, so he’ll be late, and I don’t feel
like looking at it while I’m by myself.’

‘I’ll come.’

‘No, Lucy. It wouldn’t be right. Remember hearing about the old lawyer who checked Mabel’s letter for spelling mistakes? Remember how everyone thought that was what made him
ill? The fewer people who handle this, the better. Sorry.’ Agnes could not repeat the words of Helen Spencer, would not tell anyone about the supposed murder. Denis would be the sole
exception.

Lucy was not pleased. After replacing the receiver, Agnes stared at it for several seconds, as if expecting Lucy to continue berating her even after the connection had been severed. The packet
was still on the table. It was only seven o’clock. Oscar was demolishing a small dinner of chicken skin and dog biscuit. One minute past seven. The man who had fathered her was a murderer.
The murderer was a judge. That thought had consumed ten more seconds. Her bones felt cold; having a murderer for a father was truly chilling.

Pop entered the arena. He was still full of Granada and his blueprints for Lambert House, which items were now on display in a corridor leading to the
Coronation Street
studio. Eva came
in behind him, and said she would go quietly upstairs to see the baby. Nothing Eva did was quiet, so Agnes was forced to bring down the disturbed and crying David. She was grateful, because the
moment of the grand opening had been postponed yet again.

She made tea. Pop played with his great-grandson while Eva waited for
Coronation Street
to begin.

‘All them stars’ll be looking at my blueprints,’ bragged Pop. ‘I’ll be getting orders from them next – they’ve plenty of money.’

The baby slept while Eva watched a fight between two women near a viaduct on an imaginary street. Some people came along and separated the warring females; Agnes made more tea during the
advertisements. After the break, there was louder shouting, some smoking and a bit of a story about two young girls wanting the same unkempt and totally undesirable man with red hair and bad
skin.

The music played. Eva, who seemed to think that the programme was fact rather than fiction, waxed on about Ena Sharples being rude and Annie Walker being too big for her slippers. ‘She
wants shifting,’ she declared. ‘They should put her in a posh pub over in Cheshire, bring her down a peg or three. She pretends she’s posh, but she’s not.’