The Trial of Marie Montrecourt (13 page)

A terrible scream in the middle of the night shattered the peace of The Laurels. It was wrenched out of her body as she writhed in agony. Her sheets were covered in blood; her face was contorted with pain. The next scream turned into a long, low moan. Stanley rushed through the door in a panic.

“What is it, Marie? What’s happened?” He stood there, horrified by the sight that met him, not knowing what to do.

Edwin peered around the door of the bedroom, his eyes still thick with sleep. “What’s the row?”

“Get McCullough! Now!” Stanley shouted at his father. “For God’s sake, don’t just stand there, Pa. Get round there now.” The old man disappeared. As Marie started to whimper, Stanley looked on helplessly. “What shall I do? What do I do, Marie?”

“Get some sheets, towels, anything,” she managed to gasp in between moans.

He did as she asked. She pushed them between her legs, trying to staunch the flow of blood. That’s how McCullough found her when he arrived.

“What’s this? What’s happened?” The doctor took off his jacket. In his haste to respond to the emergency he’d paid little attention to what he was wearing. His shirt hung loose outside his trousers, his braces were twisted, his shoes didn’t match.

“Is the baby safe?” Stanley asked.

“Leave the room, Mr Minton,” McCullough replied roughly. As the old man joined them, he added: “Both of you. Let me do my job as I see fit or I won’t be answerable for the consequences.”

Stanley, his clothes smeared with Marie’s blood, nodded but didn’t move.

McCullough called to Edwin. “Make some sweet tea for your son, Mr Minton. Get him out of here.”

Edwin nodded and led a dazed Stanley out of the room. Through her pain, Marie heard Edwin say: “She’s lost the baby then, has she?”

She clenched her fists and turned her face to the wall. She would not look. She couldn’t make herself look at the deformed pile of flesh that McCullough was wrapping up in the bloodied sheets. For months, she’d carried that thing inside her. She leant over the side of the bed and wretched into the bucket the doctor had placed beside it. Her mouth tasted foul and the blood was still flowing between her legs. Why did it have to end like this?

“Why?” The word emerged as a long drawn-out sigh that McCullough barely caught.

“Mrs Minton, you may want to arrange a funeral.”

“Go away,” she whispered.

“It sometimes helps the grieving.” The tears flowed down her cheeks. “Very well. Take this.” He handed her a small phial. “It will help.”

She knew what it was. Laudanum to keep her quiet. She obediently swallowed it. What did it matter?

Stanley entered the room and saw the bloody bundle that McCullough was carrying. Marie watched him turn away.

“Oh, God, is that it?” he muttered.

She felt no connection with the events that were being acted out in front of her. The laudanum was beginning to work. She felt herself drifting away. “What happens to it now?” she heard Stanley ask. The voices were getting fainter and more distant.

“I asked Mrs Minton if she wanted to arrange a funeral. She isn’t in a fit state to decide.”

“Arrange a funeral. I’ll pay whatever it takes.”

“I’ll make sure the boy receives a Christian burial.”

She saw Stanley lean against the wall and heard McCullough say: “I’m sorry, Mr Minton. The baby was lying in the wrong position. I did what I could. If your wife had come to me earlier, rather than relying on those concoctions she insists on making, then the matter might have turned out differently.”

Was he saying it was her fault? She tried to grasp what was being said. Did he mean it was her fault the baby had died?

“As for your wife…” Marie realised Stanley hadn’t asked about her. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore. “To be truthful,” McCullough continued, “she’s in the hands of God, not in mine. She’s still losing blood and she’s too weak to lose much more. I’ll call round to see her tomorrow.”

*

Marie stirred in the early hours of the morning. There was a dull ache in her stomach, as if she’d been severely kicked. Her mouth tasted foul. She groped on the bedside table looking for the hand mirror. Was this her face, hollow-eyed and drained of blood? Strands of hair were plastered against her forehead. She dropped the mirror onto the bed and looked down at the sheets. There was blood on them. The blood was still draining out of her. Is this how it was going to end? “Noooo!” Her mouth opened wide in a scream of protest but no sound emerged. She turned on her side and closed her eyes.

When she opened them again, it was to find Isabelle sitting on the bed beside her.

“Isabelle?” Marie’s voice was little more than a croak. “You shouldn’t have come all this way.” She saw her sister-in-law looking at the pile of bloodstained sheets in the corner of the room. “Gladys is coming back up for those.”

“I was so sorry about your news, Marie.” Isabelle leant towards her. “Let me stay with you for a few days. You need a woman beside you.”

“I have Gladys.”

“Gladys isn’t family.” She saw tears welling up in Marie’s eyes and she took her sister-in-law in her arms. It was like holding nothing, like holding bones. She wiped the beads of perspiration from Marie’s forehead. “I know we aren’t always the easiest of families, but when something like this happens… well… it should bring us together, don’t you think? Now, come on. You must eat.”

Marie began to shake her head, but Isabelle ignored her and picked up the bowl of soup that Gladys had brought in a few moments before.

“I insist. This soup is very light. Come on, Marie, just a spoonful. Come on.” Like a child, Marie obediently opened her mouth. “That’s good. Now, another one. That’s good.”

When the soup was finished, Isabelle continued to sit with her, holding her hand, until the sun set, until the shadows began to fall, and Marie finally fell into a deep sleep.

*

It was because of Gladys that Marie eventually made the effort to get out of bed. As far as she was aware, Stanley hadn’t been near her since she’d lost the baby. He’d taken the death very badly, Gladys said.

“Come on now,” Gladys steadied Marie as she rolled out of the bed. “I’ll help you downstairs.”

Marie leant heavily against her, still feeling extremely weak. “Has Stanley left for The Emporium?”

“I think he’s gone to that dentist of his again. It seems to be helping him. He keeps going back there.”

“Well, at least that’s something.”

They reached the parlour and Marie sank back against the cushions of the armchair.

“You rest there and I’ll make you a cup of tea,” Gladys said. She hesitated for a moment. “I don’t know if I should mention this, but…”

“Yes?” Marie prompted.

“Well, yesterday, I bumped into Dr McCullough in the town. He said things.”

“Like what?”

“Things like: Mrs Minton dabbles with matters she knows nothing about. He said you made up all sorts of concoctions. He said: Lord knows what’s in them. It’s a wonder she didn’t kill
herself,
let alone the baby.”

Marie was horrified. “He said that? He accused me of hurting the baby?”

“It’s what he meant. It wasn’t my place to disagree with him, but I did say that I’m sure you know what you’re doing. And if you ask me, Mrs Minton, it was his fault. He should have known the baby wasn’t lying right. He’s hiding the fact that it’s his fault by blaming you.”

Marie tried to control a growing panic. Had he said that to Stanley? Was that why he was avoiding her? Did he blame her for the baby’s death? She had to make him see it wasn’t her fault or else how could they ever face each other again?

When he got home from work that evening, Stanley was startled to find her sitting in the parlour. “Sorry,” he mumbled, turning to leave. “Don’t mean to disturb you.”

“No, don’t go,” Marie said quickly, before he could close the door. “We need to talk.” Reluctantly, he came back into the room. “Has Dr McCullough talked about the baby? About why he…” She couldn’t bring herself to say “died”, but she didn’t need to finish the sentence. Stanley knew exactly what she meant. He didn’t reply, but simply nodded. “Does he blame me?” she asked. “Did he say it was my fault?” He nodded again. Her stomach churned. “And do you believe him?”

“You were taking something. Pa saw you. It was something you’d made out of those herbs of yours.”

“Horehound, an infusion of horehound – it’s harmless. And if your father had asked me about it instead of running off to you or Dr McCullough, I could have explained that to him.”

“You didn’t go to see McCullough straightaway because you thought you knew better. But all I know is that my son is dead,” he said with bitterness.

“I lost him, too.” She gripped the arms of her chair and struggled to her feet. “I lost my baby, Stanley, and you have to believe me – it wasn’t anything to do with herbs. The baby was lying wrongly.”

“What do you know about anything?” he said, viciously. “You’re just an ignorant woman who’s spent all her life in a convent.” He was whipping himself up into a rage. It had been building up since the baby’s death. “Pa told me something else today as well. He said he’d heard you’ve been going around making these so-called ‘concoctions’ for other people. You’ve been charging money for it.”

Marie closed her eyes. She wasn’t ready for this confrontation – not yet.

“Grubbing around for a half penny here and a half penny there like some kind of fairground fraudster? What do you think it makes me look like, eh? Like a man who can’t support his wife. Like someone making his wife earn because he can’t pay his way.”

“Taking money from me didn’t worry you when you married me, did it?” The words were out before she realised. “But, of course, it wasn’t a half penny I brought you then was it? It was eight hundred pounds and you snatched at it!”

Stanley’s mouth fell open in astonishment and Marie sank back into the armchair, exhausted by her outburst, immediately regretting having revealed what she knew.

Stanley replied slowly: “How long have you known about that? Did Pickard tell you?” Then, his anger flared up again. “That man made me swear I wouldn’t say anything to you about it. You’ve both made a fool of me. You knew that damned agreement tied me to you forever.”

She couldn’t let him think she’d had anything to do with that. “No, I didn’t know anything about it at the time, I swear. It was Peter who told me about the money. He overheard you and your mother talking about it. Then I went to see John Pickard and I demanded to be told the truth. Like you, he told me nothing about where it came from. But if the eight hundred pounds had been given to me instead of you, neither of us would be trapped in this nightmare. Instead, it’s been frittered away on a tea room that no one wants to visit.”

She was breathing heavily now, and Stanley’s face was turning a bright red. He leant over her and she cowered back in the chair, uncertain as to what he would do next.

“That eight hundred pounds bought you a roof over your head, woman, and if I could tear up that agreement now I would, but Pickard will refuse it – because then he’d have you back on his hands and that’s the last thing he wants.”

Marie’s heart was beating fast, but she was determined not to show fear. “None of this is of my making.”

“Did my son have to die so you could get your own back? Is that it? Because you
did
kill my son – you and your concoctions – and that
is
of your making. Well, I can at least put an end to that.”

He strode out into the hall and she saw him take a walking stick from the stand. She struggled to her feet. “Stanley!” She followed him, trying to run up the stairs after him, but she tripped over her skirts and fell heavily, so he reached her room before she could stop him. She saw him raise the stick.

“No, Stanley, don’t,” she shouted.

He smashed it down on the shelves where she stored everything for her remedies. Bottles were shattered; glass and liquid flew through the air; rare herbs and oils spilled everywhere. The precious ingredients that Sister Grace had collected over many years were ruined. He tore the Bunsen burner from the gas tap, the thin rubber tube still attached to it.

She crawled the rest of the way up the stairs, but by then his work was done. Without a word he threw the stick aside and clutching the Bunsen burner like a trophy he strode to his room, locking the door behind him.

She sat on the floor in the middle of the mess and hugged her knees to her chest, rocking backwards and forwards as her tears flowed unchecked. She had wanted this baby so desperately; how could anyone believe she would have hurt it? She would never have harmed it. It was wicked and evil to say so and Stanley was wrong to even think it, and so was Dr McCullough. She would never destroy anything that was so precious to her.

She stayed there throughout the night and it was where she woke up the next morning. She was stiff and in pain, but she wearily began to clear up the mess. She would tell Gladys there had been an accident. It would only worry her if she knew the truth.

As Evelyn’s motor car crawled along The Grove in Ilkley, it emitted a huge cloud of blue smoke followed by a loud bang. It startled two passers-by and a horse pulling a milk cart was panicked into galloping down the high street.

He hardly noticed, he was too preoccupied. Over the last few weeks, he’d struggled with the question of whether or not he should call on Marie Minton. What would he do if she proved beyond any reasonable doubt that his father had cheated Montrecourt out of his claim, and then killed him in cold blood in order to conceal it? But then the uncertainty of not knowing would be worse, he had finally concluded.

He turned his motor car left into Pewter Street and pulled up outside a grey stone terraced house that identified itself as The Laurels. He became aware that curtains were twitching in the houses nearby and a group of small boys were heading towards his motor car with open mouths. He jumped down and peeled off his gauntlets, removing his cap and goggles. He hesitated for a moment in front of the painted red door with its brass knocker. It opened just as he raised his hand to knock.

“Yes?” The woman who answered it was staring in wonder over his shoulder at the bright blue motor car behind him. “Yes, sir?” she repeated.

“I’ve called to see Mrs Minton? I believe she lives here?” The woman nodded, still staring past him. “Would you tell her I have a letter for her?”

“A letter?” Then, obviously remembering her manners, she added: “I’m sorry, sir. Come in. Just wait here in the hall a moment.”

She disappeared up the stairs and Evelyn heard the murmur of voices. He glanced around him at his surroundings. Not to his taste, but comfortable enough.

The woman returned. “Mrs Minton says will you wait in the front parlour, sir? She won’t be long.”

“Yes, thank you.” He followed her into a room to the right of the front door.

“Let me take your coat and things, sir.”

He handed her his gloves and hat, and unbuckled his leather coat. The parlour was rather dull and the decoration was unimaginative. His attention was caught by a glass case containing a stuffed bird on a twig – not a thing of beauty to his mind.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting.”

The voice was low and musical, with the faintest trace of an accent. He swung around to face her and stared in astonishment at the young woman who had entered. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected of Montrecourt’s daughter, but he had never expected her to look like this. This young woman could have stepped out of a painting by one of the Pre-Raphaelites. She seemed so young – little more than a child. Her hair, the colour of amber and hung loose, formed a halo around her face, which was very pale. Her eyes were a deep brown and seemed full of sadness. She wore a white lace waistcoat over a white dress, and a black shawl embroidered with roses was thrown around her shoulders. He found his voice at last.

“Mrs Minton?”

“Yes.”

Marie had been resting on her bed when Gladys had come upstairs to say she had a visitor. She was still weak after the miscarriage and, assuming the caller was a neighbour who had yet to learn she was no longer making the cures and remedies, she hadn’t bothered to change. She was embarrassed to find that her visitor was actually an elegant young man who was staring at her in astonishment, presumably unaccustomed to being received by a young woman in a state of
déshabillé
. Gladys should have warned her.

Her visitor quickly bowed his head in a polite greeting. “I’m sorry; I’ve obviously disturbed you, Mrs Minton.”

“I’m sorry to greet you so informally, but I wasn’t expecting anyone and I’ve been resting. I haven’t been well recently.”

He had kind eyes – she noticed that. Blue eyes, which expressed concern when she mentioned that she hadn’t been well.

“Then you must sit down,” he said, as though he was the host and she the visitor. He was obviously used to being obeyed and, a little flustered, she sat down as instructed. He took the armchair facing her. “And I should be apologising to you for turning up on your doorstep unannounced. I should have sent my card first.”

He was a man of some substance, she could see that. She wasn’t sure what she should do next, but he took charge of the situation.

“Forgive me. Let me introduce myself, Mrs Minton. I’m Evelyn Harringdon.”

He seemed to be waiting for her to react to the name, but it meant nothing to her. After a moment, all she could think of to say was: “Gladys said you have a letter for me?”

“Yes, that’s right. I’m afraid it’s taken an awfully long time to reach you. The circumstances surrounding its arrival were… quite strange.” She saw him take two envelopes out of his inner pocket. He held one of them up. “Some months ago, this letter was delivered to my father. I should explain that he has been dead for some time, so it was obviously a surprise to me. Inside it was contained this sealed letter for you.” He held up the other envelope. “But I had no idea who you were or how to reach you, until I accidentally met Mr John Pickard.”

“Mr Pickard?” She remembered all too well
her
last meeting with the solicitor.

He handed her the letters. “I suggest you read the one addressed to my father first. It’s from a priest, Father Connor.” He seemed to be waiting for her to react again, but she shook her head to show the name was unknown to her. He looked disappointed. “Well, it will explain why your letter was enclosed inside mine.”

She took both the letters and stared in astonishment at the name on the first envelope. “Sir Gordon Harringdon?”

She could scarcely believe it. Sir Gordon was famously known as the hero of Majuba, and this gentleman standing in her front parlour was his son. She wished fervently that she could disappear into the ground. To have greeted him dressed so casually was shameful. He was indicating for her to read, but she became puzzled after the first sentence.

“The Transvaal?”

“In Africa. My father served there, in the first war against the Boers in 1881.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Read on,” he urged, and moved away to allow her to continue.

The next sentence caused her to exclaim aloud. “Sister Grace is dead. I didn’t even know that she was ill. She was a good friend to me.”

He turned and his face expressed concern. “I am so sorry. I hadn’t realised the news would come as such a shock to you. It was very insensitive of me.”

She looked at the other envelope. It was Sister’s letter. She couldn’t bear to open that one – not yet.

The young man knelt down beside her. “Does nothing in Father Connor’s letter mean anything to you?”

She could see that he wanted her to say yes. She read it again and then shook her head. “No, I’m sorry.”

He stood up, deeply disappointed. “I had hoped. I believe your father was in Africa at the same time as mine. I had hoped you could tell me something about him. But now I’ve met you, I can see you’re too young to have known him. Did your mother ever mention anything about him?”

“No. I was born in a convent just outside Chartres – not in Africa.”

“But your mother is Hortense Montrecourt?”

“She was. She died at the convent giving birth to me. I never met my father. No one has ever been able to tell me anything about him until now.” Her unexpected visitor had revived hopes she had long ago abandoned. “I don’t even know my father’s first name. Can you tell me what it is?”

For a moment, he seemed reluctant to answer. “I believe your father’s name was Henri.”

“Henri,” she repeated the name quietly to herself. “Can you tell me anything else?”

He turned away. “No, not really. I’ve been told that your mother helped my father escape the Boers after his regiment had been defeated at the Battle of Majuba. And that your father died – was killed – when the Boers attacked his farm where he’d given shelter to my father. You can’t tell me anything more?”

She shook her head. This was astonishing news to her. It was difficult to take in. “My father died protecting Sir Gordon Harringdon? Why did no one ever tell me?”

“No one knows,” her visitor said. “It was never mentioned.”

She stared at him as one thought rapidly spiraled into another. She found herself making connections, jumping to conclusions. Things that had made no sense to her before were now beginning to fall into place.

“It can’t be,” she murmured, “but it must be.” She saw his lack of comprehension. “Your father must have been my benefactor.” In her excitement, she caught hold of Evelyn’s arm. “Don’t you see – if my parents helped your father escape he would be grateful, wouldn’t he? John Pickard would never tell me who had paid for my keep at the convent, but it must have been your father. I had thought it was Sister Grace, but it wasn’t.”

“Your keep?” He was as astonished as she was.

“Didn’t you know?” she asked incredulously. “Did he keep it a secret even from his son?”

“Yes, even his son didn’t know.” Evelyn murmured. “He was a very private man. Didn’t like to take credit for his actions. I didn’t know of your existence until I received this letter.”

“He must also have provided the dowry for me to marry. To show his gratitude for what my parents had done to help him. It has to be.” She was excited and astonished. “But why was John Pickard instructed never to mention his name? I don’t understand why.” Her visitor said nothing. “It was him, wasn’t it? He did want to show his gratitude, didn’t he?”

“Yes, it must have been like that.” She waited for him to explain further, but he didn’t. “Did your mother leave you nothing that would tell us more about what happened at the farm on the day the Boers attacked?”

She shook her head. “No. I only have some small mementoes, but nothing that means very much.” She crossed to a sideboard drawer and withdrew the battered tin box. She opened it and took out a small lump of rock. “I always pretended, when I was a child, that this was precious. I’ve no idea where it came from, but it belonged to my mother.”

He slowly took the rock from her. It was fool’s gold.

“And I have this, too,” she said.

She was holding up a tarnished regimental button. He took it over to the window to study it better. She was smoothing out a torn piece of paper as he murmured: “My father’s regiment.”

“And these are the last words my mother wrote. I’ve never understood them.” She began to read them aloud, translating them from the French:
I cannot forget what I have done, what I have been made to do. May God forgive me, and forgive him too for making me do it. Protect my child.
Are you ill?” she asked in concern, noticing he’d grown very pale.

“No. I had a late night yesterday and I’m just a little tired.” He turned abruptly towards the door. “I must go.”

Surprised by the suddenness of his decision, she followed him into the hallway. “Did those words mean something to you?”

“No, I’m afraid not.” He attempted a smile. “I’m so sorry. You must think me very rude.” He took his coat and hat from the hall stand where Gladys had left them.

She thought she could guess at the cause of his sudden change of mood. “I’m sure that our talk must have awakened sad memories of your father,” she said, gently.

“Yes, that’s right. Things I
hoped I could forget.” There was a hint of something she couldn’t define, but then his manner changed again and he became businesslike. “My father obviously expressed a strong wish for confidentiality in the matter of the money he provided, for reasons we’ve discussed. I would ask you to continue to honour that wish. In fact, I would ask you to not discuss his involvement with your family at all – not even with your husband. It would be the right way to repay his kindness.”

John Pickard had made exactly those conditions, so she wasn’t surprised. “Of course I won’t discuss it. May I keep Father Connor’s letter, though?” Otherwise, after her visitor had gone, she would think she had dreamt these extraordinary events.

He seemed about to refuse, but then thought better of it. He nodded. “If you promise not to show it to anyone.”

“I will show it to no one,” she said. “I promise.”

He took her hand in his and bowed over it. Then he was gone and she was left alone. She heard Gladys approaching from the kitchen. She would have to give her some explanation for the man’s visit. She would say that he had had business in the area and had been asked to deliver a letter to her from one of the sisters in the convent where she was born. It was as close to the truth as she could make it.

*

Evelyn drove down The Grove little caring where he was heading. He was now certain that his father had killed Montrecourt. It was Hortense’s note that had finally convinced him:
I cannot forget what I have done, what I have been made to do. May God forgive me, and forgive him too for making me do it.
It wasn’t gratitude that had inspired his father to help the girl – it was guilt.

He couldn’t even begin to imagine what had happened on that day at the farm. Hortense must have been there when his father killed Montrecourt. “Bury him” – the words made sense now. Perhaps he had forced her to help him get rid of the body. The only redeeming feature in the whole sordid business was that his father must have finally suffered remorse. He’d resigned from the Mining Company and had used some of the money to support the girl. It was surely self interest that had made him provide for her marriage, though. The name of Montrecourt would disappear forever once she became Marie Minton and there would be no remaining link to the past.

Evelyn struck the steering wheel with his fist in anger – damn his father! Not only had he robbed the girl of her family, he’d cheated her out of her inheritance. Blood money might ease his father’s conscience, but it didn’t ease Evelyn’s. Just what he could do about the girl he had no idea, but he would keep in touch with her just in case.