The Trial of Marie Montrecourt (20 page)

“Evie?”

Evelyn tried to lift his head from where it had sunk onto the table. It didn’t seem to want to move.

“It is you. My dear boy, I saw a heap in the corner and I thought I recognised the jacket. A group of us are just passing through after Buffy’s party. Called in for one last drink. Evie, it’s Siggy.” Siggy surveyed his friend. He’d been sick down the front of his jacket. He called over to the barman. “How many of these has he had?”

“I lost count, sir.”

“You are in a state, old boy,” he said softly. “Come on, Evie, you’re coming home with me.” He signalled to one of his group to give him a hand to hoist Evelyn to his feet. “Call a cab,” he ordered another.

“Well, I don’t know what’s caused this, old dear,” he said, as Evelyn rolled backwards and forwards to the sway of the hansom as it galloped through the city’s deserted streets, “but you’re going to have one hell of a headache tomorrow.”

*

How long had she been sitting here in her room, her hands gripping the arms of her chair? She looked down at her knuckles. They were white.

She was fighting to make her mind blank, but images managed to force their way through. The look in Stanley’s eyes; her hand still shaking as she closed them. The way the rubber tube twisted and turned slowly in the air as it landed in the yard below. She couldn’t recall taking Evelyn’s letters, but she must have done because they were in the fire in front of her – nothing but a pile of ashes now.

Gradually, she began to be aware of the sounds of the outside world: the rumble of a milk cart, the clatter of horses’ hooves, the chiming of a distant church clock. Life was going on and she had to go on too, somehow. She had chosen a path and she had to follow it. If she could make herself believe that Stanley had died of a burst ulcer, then others would believe it too. There need be no mention of chloroform, no scandal, and Evelyn need never know how close he came to ruin. The question was, could she live with the knowledge of what she had done?

*

“Mrs Gilpin. Mrs Gilpin.” Marie hammered at the landlady’s front door. She heard Mr Gilpin coughing.

“All right. All right, I’m coming.” Footsteps shuffled to the door. “Do you know what time it is?” Mrs Gilpin grumbled. “It’s six o’clock for heaven’s sake.” She broke off when she saw the state her lodger was in.

“My husband’s had some kind of attack. I think he’s dead,” Marie said. Her distress was genuine. “Please, help me. I don’t know what to do.”

“Oh, my lor’!” Mrs Gilpin pulled her dressing gown around her and shuffled after her distraught lodger, up the stairs and into Stanley’s bedroom. “Oh, my lor’!” she repeated. She crossed to the bed and peered down at Stanley. He was lying on his back. She touched him. “He’s definitely dead. Did you close his eyes?”

“I came in just now to make sure he was all right and I found him like this…” Marie broke off. She had the strangest sensation that only one part of her was functioning, the part that was saying the words. The other parts were still numb and frozen. She sank into a nearby chair and covered her face with her hands. The functioning part of her spoke again.

“I should have sat up with him; I shouldn’t have left his bedside. It must have happened while I was asleep. He made me leave him. It was about ten o’clock. He said I looked tired.”

Marie heard a noise and glanced towards the door to see a cadaverous-looking man, also in a dressing gown, entering Stanley’s bedroom.

“Gilpin, come and look at this. Poor Mr Minton, he’s dead.”

Marie had never met Mr Gilpin before; he’d only ever been a disembodied cough until now. She watched as he wandered around peering at everything, lifting up the wine glass, poking at the fire. Then for the first time, her eye was caught by the blue fluted bottle that was partly concealed on the mantelshelf by the clock. The chloroform. She’d left the bottle in full view. Mr Gilpin obviously hadn’t seen it because he crossed over to Stanley without a comment and leant over him, touching the pulse on his neck.

“Funny smell,” he said as he bent closer to the body.

“Brandy.” Marie’s heart was still beating fast. “When I found him, I tried to give him brandy to revive him and I must have spilt some. He asked me to get him some, you remember, I told you.” She turned to Mrs Gilpin. She wanted them to go now, before she lost her nerve – before they saw the bottle. “I must get dressed. I must fetch Dr Hornby. I must get the doctor.”

“No point in rushing to do that,” said Gilpin dryly. “The man’s dead. There’s nothing the doctor can do to help him now. It’ll keep till a more civilised hour, when people are up and about.”

Marie’s knees went weak and she sank onto the chair behind her. Mrs Gilpin, moved by a rare moment of understanding, said: “Come on, Gilpin, better leave her to herself for a minute.”

When they’d gone, Marie stared at the fireplace. She had no recollection of putting the bottle there. She knew she had to get rid of it and she had to stay calm.

*

By eight o’clock, she was dressed and pacing the room impatiently, waiting to set off for the surgery. Once Dr Hornby signed the death certificate stating that Stanley had died of a burst ulcer then this nightmare would be over. Mrs Gilpin appeared, as usual, the minute she heard Marie in the hallway.

“I’ll come with you to the doctor’s, shall I? You shouldn’t be out on your own.”

The small, blue bottle nestling in Marie’s coat pocket suddenly felt extremely large. “No,” she said quickly. “I’d rather go alone. It’s not far.” She shot out through the door before Mrs Gilpin could draw breath to protest.

She hurried past Wellington Road where Dr Hornby had his surgery, heading for the bridge over the River Aire. She had the presence of mind to take a quick look around her to make sure no one was watching, but she was quite safe as people were too busy rushing to work to have time for anything else. She slipped the bottle out of her pocket and leant over the parapet as if staring into the grey water. As a milk cart passed, she used the clatter of the horses’ hooves to disguise the splash of the bottle as it hit the river. It wasn’t sinking. It was bobbing jauntily in a circle, waltzing round and round on the surface of the water as if to taunt her. Then, at last, to her relief, it was caught by the current and was swept out of sight. She turned back towards Wellington Road and the surgery.

Dr Hornby lived above his work and he responded to the persistent hammering on his front door with some irritation. “Can’t it wait another five minutes until surgery opens?” he shouted, until he saw it was Marie. “Great heavens, Mrs Minton, what on earth’s the matter? Come in.” He ushered her inside and quickly put out a hand to support her as she staggered.

“Stanley died in the night.”

He was clearly shocked. “This is terrible news, terrible news.”

“The ulcer must have burst. I was asleep in my room. I found him this morning. I didn’t know what to do…”

“I knew I should have called in the surgeon,” he muttered, then turned his attention to calming her. “Look, I know it’s distressing, Mrs Minton, but you mustn’t work yourself up like this. It won’t help. Go back home and I’ll follow shortly. Will you be all right to go on your own?” She nodded, but as she turned she stumbled again and he steadied her. It was obvious she was in no state to be by herself. “Wait here a moment; I’ll come with you. You’re still in shock. Let me get my bag.”

*

It took a huge effort of will for Marie to stand beside the doctor gazing down at Stanley lying on his back on the bed. She realised that Dr Hornby’s attention was caught by the wine glass. He had picked it up and was sniffing at it. “Brandy,” she said. “I tried to revive him with brandy.” She was shocked how easily the lie came to her.

Dr Hornby clicked his teeth with his tongue in disapproval. “Not the wisest thing to do.”

“It
was
the ulcer, wasn’t it? You said it might burst.” She wanted Dr Hornby to sign the death certificate and sign it quickly, and then it would all be over, but Dr Hornby wouldn’t be hurried. He deliberated over the body, checking and rechecking it. She watched, the strain beginning to build.

“It’s the ulcer. It couldn’t be anything else, could it?” she said again. “It must have burst. You said it might. Could I have done more to help him?”

He patted her hand sympathetically. “No, no one could have done more. You’ve worn yourself out looking after him.” He bent over the body again. “Well, given his history it would seem to me that the obvious cause of death is indeed the ulcer.” He glanced at her pale face. “I don’t see any sense in prolonging your distress, Mrs Minton. Once I’ve signed the death certificate, you can lay your husband’s body to rest.”

She almost fainted with gratitude. “Thank you.”

She was distracted by the distant sound of raised voices from the hallway downstairs. Footsteps ran up the stairs. There was a hammering on the Minton’s front door. Startled, Marie muttered: “Excuse me.” She hurried down from the bedroom and opened the door of the apartment to find herself, to her horror, face-to-face with Stanley’s father.

“Where is he?” He glared at Marie, who seemed to be blocking the doorway. Angrily, he tried to push her aside. “I want to see my son.”

Marie caught hold of him. “He’s dead.”

“I know he’s dead.” Edwin’s voice quivered with emotion. “She told me when she let me in.” He pointed behind him and Marie saw Mrs Gilpin standing in the hallway looking up. Her husband joined her.

“Let me pass. Let me see my son.”

Dr Hornby came out to see what the commotion was about and Marie stepped aside to let Edwin through. He gazed down at his son’s body, while the doctor remained respectfully near the door and Marie paced up and down the corridor outside the room. She wanted to express sympathy but feared facing him. She tried to find comfort in the fact that he need never know of Stanley’s addiction, but it didn’t help. She watched the old man gently bend down to kiss his son on the forehead. She had to turn away. She couldn’t bear to watch.

She heard him say. “God bless you. I called to see how you were and I find you like this.” He straightened up and looked at Dr Hornby. “I came here to patch things up between us. We’d not seen each other for months. We quarrelled when he came to live in Leeds; we’d never quarrelled before. He was a good son. I didn’t even know he was ill.” His voice broke. He couldn’t continue.

“It was a perforated ulcer,” Dr Hornby informed him. “I was treating him for an ulcer.”

“I didn’t even know he was ill,” Edwin repeated. “Nobody told me.”

Marie tried to control the tremble in her voice, but she knew she had to speak. She had chosen her path and she had to walk along it to the end. “We didn’t want to worry you.” She turned to the doctor. “As you know, my husband has suffered from an ulcer for a long time. Dr McCullough will confirm that.” Both the Gilpins entered as Marie was speaking. She was thrown by their reappearance. “Stanley’s always suffered that way.”

“If he was so ill, why wasn’t I told?” Edwin asked.

“You’d kept yourself apart from us since we moved from The Laurels, and – like I said – Stanley didn’t want to worry you.” She saw the Gilpins exchange a look. “Dr Hornby diagnosed an ulcer, didn’t you, doctor? He was due to see a surgeon very soon if he didn’t improve.” She turned to Edwin. “I was going to tell you. I’m sorry. It’s been a shock for you.”

Nothing was going to stop Edwin now. He hadn’t been there when his son died and he wanted to blame someone.

“If I’d been here, it wouldn’t have happened. But I was thrown out by her.” To Marie’s horror, he pointed at her and turned to the Gilpins, sensing their sympathy. “She didn’t want me near my own son.”

An uncomfortable silence greeted the old man’s outburst. Marie knew she should protest that it was Stanley who hadn’t wanted him at Garibaldi Street, afraid he’d discover his use of chloroform, but she couldn’t admit to that. Otherwise what had it all been for?

“It’s not natural to separate a son from his father,” Edwin continued, “and that’s what she did.” Marie looked towards Hornby for support. Edwin saw the look. He turned on the doctor. “You say he died from an ulcer; how do I know that’s true? I want a second opinion.”

“Mr Minton, I know you’re upset,” Dr Hornby said soothingly, “but it was an ulcer, I do assure you.”

“It was not an ulcer. He was not ill with an ulcer. He would have told me. I demand a second opinion. There’s something not right. Something’s not right.”

Marie felt the ground slipping away from under her feet. She tried to say: “That’s just being foolish. You’re upset”, but she could barely form the words.

It was Mr Gilpin who put a stop to any further discussion. “I suggest we all keep calm. Dr Hornby, as you know, I’m the registrar for births, marriages and deaths in this area and Mr Minton has a right to demand a second opinion. I should mention that there was a faint smell of something on the body when I first leant over him. Not brandy,” he said curtly, as Marie opened her mouth to speak, “something else. I didn’t attach too much importance to it at the time, but now… well, if there’s any concern about the cause of death then I won’t register it, Dr Hornby, unless there’s a post-mortem.”

Marie was so astonished by Gilpin’s revelation that she became rooted to the spot. Dr Hornby looked offended. “Of course we can do a post-mortem on the body, Mr Gilpin,” he replied, “if you doubt my competence, but I have no doubt myself as to the cause of death. I was simply trying to save Mrs Minton further distress when I suggested I could sign the death certificate. Which was a perfectly correct suggestion as, in my opinion, he died from natural causes.”

“This is all so unnecessary, surely?” Marie was struggling to remain calm. “I have no reason to question Dr Hornby’s judgement.”

“Well, I have,” said Edwin emphatically, “and if this gentleman says there was a funny smell in the room, then we should find out what it was.”

Dr Hornby glanced at Marie apologetically. “Mrs Minton?” What other choice did she have but to nod her head in agreement? “Very well,” said Dr Hornby briskly. “I suggest I send a telegram to Dr Shelton, a very eminent pathologist at St Mary’s Hospital, and ask him to perform the post-mortem here this afternoon. Will that satisfy you, Mr Minton?” Edwin nodded. “Mrs Minton?”