The Trial of Marie Montrecourt (22 page)

“Are you sure you’re all right, Mrs Minton?” Tilly leant across and touched her hand. Marie nodded, forcing herself to concentrate on the proceedings. She could only pray that the whole thing would soon be over.

Mr Wallington, the coroner, addressed the jury in a bored voice that conveyed his familiarity with the procedures.

“As I told you yesterday, the purpose of this inquest is to establish by what means the deceased came to his death. I will call on anyone I believe can throw some light upon that matter. If something isn’t clear to you,” he peered at the jury over the pince-nez he’d just placed on his nose, “then ask. My intention today is only to confirm the identity of the deceased and the details of his life.”

He called forward Edwin Minton, who swore on oath to tell the truth. The coroner began his questioning. “You identified the body of the deceased as that of your son Stanley James Minton?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And he was how old?

“Fifty years old.” Edwin’s voice trembled a little, and he gripped his walking stick tightly until he regained control of himself.

“And the death, you say, was unexpected as far as you were concerned?”

“What father would expect his son to die before him? There was no reason for it. He had many years ahead of him. He’d just started up a new business.”

Marie listened closely as Edwin gave a glowing summary of Stanley’s past and present life, starting with the day he had bought the small grocers on Prospect Crescent. “He turned it into The Emporium, one of the most successful businesses in Harrogate. He did well. You ask anyone. All his customers respected and liked him. He supported me and his mother, God rest her soul, all his life. He was a good son.”

Marie understood why he didn’t want the stigma of failure to follow his son to the grave, but it was far from the truth.

“But he sold The Emporium,” the coroner prompted.

“He wanted to better himself and move to Leeds.”

“And you weren’t with him at the end? You’d gone to live with your other son,” Wallington checked his notes, “Geoffrey?”

“I’d been thrown out.” Edwin glared at Marie. “By her.”

Marie shook her head in denial, but Edwin was pointing an accusing finger at her. “She forced me to go. She threw me out. Why? Because she didn’t want me to see what she was up to, that’s why. Ask her what was in all those pills and potions she kept making. My wife, Edith, never trusted her.”

“Pills and potions?” Wallington looked confused.

Marie was astonished. Did he mean the remedies she used to make? She hadn’t expected that to be used against her.

“All I know is, our Stanley was a healthy man when I last saw him,” Edwin continued doggedly, “before he moved to Leeds. He had no reason to die. That’s what Dr Morton said to me at Garibaldi Street. She was already rushing that fool,” he pointed at Hornby, “into signing a death certificate when I arrived. Why was that? Because she wanted him buried before any questions were asked.” Marie saw Betsy Capes and her friends craning forward, to better hear the old man’s words. “I put a stop to that. It was me who demanded a second opinion. That didn’t please her.”

“Had Mrs Minton objected to a post-mortem then?” the coroner asked.

Marie knew she hadn’t and she was glad of it now. Reluctantly, Edwin had to take back his accusation.

“She said she wanted it settled. She said she’d pay whatever it cost. But why did she separate me from my son? Why did she get me out the way if she didn’t have anything to hide?”

Because your son had something to hide
, she wanted to say.

“Thank you, Mr Minton,” the coroner said firmly. It was obvious that Edwin wanted to say much more, but one look from the coroner made it clear that that was all the time he was going to be allowed. “I can take evidence from you at a later stage, if necessary.”

“Mrs Minton?”

She realised that the coroner was beckoning for her to come forward. It took an effort of will to make her way to the seat at the front, but, once there, she managed to keep her composure. It was just for a little longer, surely.

“Mrs Minton, you’ve heard what Mr Edwin Minton had to say? Do you confirm that your husband died between the evening of May 30th and the morning of May 31st
at number fourteen Garibaldi Street?”

“Yes.” Marie’s voice was clipped and tense.

“We’ve heard that the deceased was normally in good health? Is that correct?”

“No,” she said firmly. “Ask anyone. When I married Mr Minton, he already suffered from a severe stomach complaint and painful gum disorders. He later developed an ulcer. He might have been strong, but he certainly wasn’t healthy.”

She glanced towards the Mintons. Edwin was glaring at her; Geoffrey was observing her with open hostility. Only Isabelle seemed to have any sympathy for her, and even she looked away when she caught Marie’s glance.

She knew she couldn’t let Edwin’s accusations remain unchallenged. “The pills and potions that my father-in-law mentioned were harmless. I learnt how to blend them at my convent in France. They contained natural herbs for curing simple ailments. My husband always said they helped him.” At least she had nothing to hide there. “And I’m sorry to contradict my father-in-law, but I didn’t throw him out of the house. It was my husband who insisted he should go.”

Edwin shouted “Lies!” and Geoffrey tried to restrain him. Isabelle covered her face with her hands, embarrassed by his outburst.

The coroner frowned at Edwin. “I don’t think this is a suitable moment to air family grievances, Mr Minton. The time will come for that. I am now adjourning the inquest until July 20th, by which time the pathologist will have submitted his analysis on the contents of the deceased’s stomach.” With those words, the coroner brought the proceedings to an end.

Marie was stunned. July 20th? She’d assumed it would all be over by the end of today. How could she bear to wait until then to discover what the pathologist’s findings were?

“Mrs Minton?” She looked up, still stupefied by the news, to see that Dr Hornby was gazing down at her with concern. “You look very pale. Can I offer you my arm for support?”

“Dr Hornby, yes. I… thank you.”

“You’re under more of a strain than you realise,” he murmured. “I’m sure anyone would be.”

She gratefully took his arm as he led her from the hall.

It had been three weeks since the adjournment of the inquest and Marie had found it the longest three weeks of her life. It was a relief when she received a telegram from Geoffrey informing her curtly that the burial of Stanley could now take place, as the coroner had signed the release for the body. He was to be buried at the Telford Street Wesleyan Chapel in Harrogate
. Service begins at eleven a.m.,
was all
the telegram said.

The train was late and she had difficulty finding the street on which the chapel was situated. When she eventually arrived, it was to find that the service had already begun and the doors were closed. She had to push hard against them to force them open. The rattle caused all heads to turn and the minister to halt his sermon. Flushed and out of breath, she closed the door behind her. It was only a small chapel, but it was crowded. Where had they all come from, these people? She recognised Betsy Capes, Geoffrey and Alice Smith, the Godwins and Gladys, but all the others were strangers to her.

The Minton family were seated on the front pew; Edwin next to the aisle, then Isabelle, then Geoffrey. To reach the only space left beside them, Marie realised she would have to push past them all. Their message was clear. She was not welcome to sit with them. For a second, she faltered. Then she gained courage and walked deliberately down the aisle, aware she was the focus of everyone’s attention. The clatter of her feet on the flagstones sounded unbelievably loud.

Steeling herself for the ordeal, she walked up to Stanley’s coffin and placed a hand on it, bowing her head in respect. It was what she had to do. It was what was expected of the grieving widow.

The minister stayed silent as Marie, still the target of all eyes, turned and crossed to the front pew. At first, the Mintons made no attempt to make a space for her, but she didn’t move. She remained where she was in the aisle, waiting for them to slide along the bench.

It was Isabelle who acted. She stood up and indicated for Geoffrey to move along the pew. She sat down beside him again and then Edwin slid towards her to close the gap. Marie took the vacant seat on the end. The tension in the chapel eased and heads were lowered to prayer books again. The minister continued with the service.

As the ceremony unfolded, Marie stood when everybody else stood and sat when everybody sat. She mouthed hymns she didn’t know and bowed her head to prayers she didn’t hear. There were times during the ceremony when it was almost unbearable, but she had travelled so far along the path there was no turning back.

When the service was over, she found herself at the head of the procession, immediately behind the coffin, as it was carried down the aisle and out to the cemetery. Despite the blue sky, it was cold and damp. The weathered gravestones were proof of their exposure to the elements. The minister had to raise his voice over the caw of the jackdaws disturbed by the crowd, who had gathered around the grave. Everyone shivered in the wind that seemed to have sprung up from nowhere.

As the vicar read from his Bible, Marie stared blindly down at the oak casket containing her husband’s remains. As it was slowly lowered into the ground, she picked up a handful of earth. Her hands were so cold she could scarcely move them, but she managed to scatter the soil onto the polished wooden surface. She was aware of Isabelle sobbing and of Geoffrey placing a comforting arm around her. Both he and his father stood like ramrods as the minister read the final words.

Once it was over, the Mintons were immediately surrounded by a sympathetic crowd, but no one approached the widow to offer their condolences. No one except Gladys.

“I’m sorry, Mrs Minton. It must have been a dreadful shock for you,” she said. Marie nodded, not trusting herself to speak. “We can go together to the wake at Devonshire Place, if you like.”

Marie shook her head. “I haven’t been invited.” Gladys looked scandalised. “The Mintons blame me for every ill that’s ever befallen them, Gladys. You go. Leave me here. I just need a moment alone.”

Gladys squeezed her arm and moved away, and Marie turned to look down into the pit where Stanley’s body had been laid to rest. Would he be relishing the fact that she’d condemned herself to everlasting purgatory? There was one thought that gave her comfort. He could no longer harm Evelyn.

*

He stared at the short paragraph in
The Times
that had made him abandon his breakfast and head for the privacy of his study:

The inquest into the death of northern businessman Stanley Minton, previously the owner of The Emporium, Harrogate, who died unexpectedly some weeks ago, is to re-open in Leeds tomorrow.

Stanley Minton was the name of Marie’s husband. The Emporium had been the name of Stanley’s shop. What the devil had happened? She’d never indicated to him that her husband was ill.

Wilson knocked discreetly on the door. “The Honourable Mr Austin Frobisher has called to see you, sir
.”

“What?” Evelyn was still distracted by what he had just read. “Oh, show him through, Wilson.” He folded the newspaper and put it to one side.

Siggy bounced into the room with his usual flurry of coat and scarves. “Called in because I’m off to America soon, Evie. New York, no less. I may be gone for a few months.”

“Good.” Evelyn’s gaze returned to the newspaper.

Siggy was aware that he didn’t have his friend’s full attention. “Sorry, have I called at a bad time? Shall I go? Come back later?”

“No. No, of course not,” Evelyn said apologetically. “Something’s come up, that’s all.” He picked up the newspaper and handed it to Siggy, pointing at the relevant paragraph.

Siggy scanned it quickly as Evelyn began to pace around the room. “Well, I can see it’s obviously disturbed you, but I’m not sure why.”

“The dead man’s wife was Marie Montrecourt. You remember, I told you about her. The daughter of Hortense Montrecourt?”

“Good God, Evie, that was moons ago. You said your interest in her had long since faded.”

“Well, it hadn’t. I saw her and wrote to her quite often. We grew close – too close. Then I discovered things about her – about her past. Things I can’t discuss with anyone. Not even with you, Siggy. I can’t even tell her.”

“And was that the cause of your seeking oblivion in Gerry’s Club?”

“Yes,” Evelyn said.

His friend tossed the newspaper back onto the chair. “I have a bad feeling about all this, Evie. Don’t get involved.”

“I feel responsible for her, Siggy. I have reasons for feeling responsible.”

His friend snorted derisively. “I assume she’s pretty and is probably playing on your sympathy. I believe women are very good at that.”

“Not Marie.”

“Look, I won’t pry into why you feel this responsibility.” He held up a hand as Evelyn opened his mouth to speak. “You’ve obviously convinced yourself that your father cheated her out of a fortune, I know that. If you make contact with her now and it becomes known to the newspapers, how long will it take for them to sniff out the same thing?” Siggy asked.

Evelyn knew he was right, and there was even more for them to sniff out than Siggy suspected.

“Just a thought,” Siggy continued, “is there no one who can keep in contact with her for you – let you know what’s happening without you becoming directly involved. Someone who can be trusted to be discreet?”

Evelyn thought for a moment. “There’s John Pickard, I suppose. He’s the solicitor in Harrogate – he who obeys instructions and asks no questions.”

“Perfect. He’s your man. Telephone Pickard and instruct him to keep an eye on things for you.”

“What? Now?”

“Now seems as good a time as any,” Siggy replied.

The solicitor was just leaving his office when the telephone rang. “John Pickard speaking.”

“Pickard? Sir Evelyn Harringdon here.”

The solicitor sounded surprised. “How do you do, Sir Evelyn.”

Evelyn glanced at Siggy, who nodded encouragingly. “I believe that Mrs Minton’s husband has died recently? Am I correct?”

“Er, yes. Yes, that’s right. There’s an inquest in progress. I think it reconvenes very soon.”

“How is Mrs Minton bearing up?”

Pickard appeared at a loss how to answer. “I’m sorry, Sir Evelyn, I’m no longer in touch with the family so I have no idea.”

“It’s just that, as you know, my father always felt an obligation towards her, and I wanted to ensure that she was coping with the strain. Why is there an inquest, by the way?”

“It seems there are a few complications about the death, Sir Evelyn. If you’re really interested, there was a report in the
Leeds Mercury
about it. I could read it to you if you want me to?”

“Yes. Do that.”

“I have it here somewhere.” Evelyn could hear the rustling of paper. “Ah, yes, here it is. The headline in the
Mercury
is,
Mysterious Death of Stanley Minton.
”

Pickard then proceeded to read out the article. It was full of purple prose of the most lurid kind, praising the young widow’s beauty, and the evident hostility of the husband’s family, including their suspicion that Stanley’s death was not a natural one.

“So what does all that mean?” Evelyn asked impatiently.

“I suppose it means that Stanley’s family are accusing her of playing some part in it, although there appears to be no proof. No doubt it will be proven to be a ridiculous assumption when the inquest reopens.”

“This
is
absurd.” Evelyn said angrily. “To place the poor woman in such a dreadful situation is nothing short of vindictive.” There was silence on the other end of the phone. “Right, Pickard, I want you sitting by her side every day at the inquest and I want you advising her, until this nonsense is settled.”

“I hardly see how that will help,” John Pickard protested.

“I will pay you well for any inconvenience, of course – and whatever fee you think fit.”

The solicitor began to protest again. “Contracts, property and investment – that’s all I know.”

“Just advise her when to speak and what to say. Is that too much to ask? I can’t be seen to be involved and my father trusted in your discretion, I know.”

The solicitor silently absorbed this. “Oh, I see. Yes, of course. You want to preserve your father’s anonymity. Things could be said; things mentioned at the inquest in the heat of the moment, perhaps?”

“Yes, something like that.” He longed to ask Pickard to pass a message on to Marie, but it would be better for them both if she knew nothing about his involvement. “Please don’t mention our conversation to Mrs Minton, Pickard. Just keep reporting back to me.”

“Very well, but what reason can I give for my renewed interest in her affairs?”

“Tell her it’s because you were once her guardian and you still feel bound to offer her your help.”

Evelyn replaced the telephone and turned to Siggy. “It’s done,” he said. “Let’s hope this appalling situation will soon be over.”

*

Marie was astonished when Tilly showed John Pickard into the parlour. He was a stranger to her now.

“Mr Pickard, how do you do?” She put aside the embroidery, which she was using as a distraction through the long days of waiting. She held out her hand by way of greeting. He took it and bent over it politely. “This is a surprise,” she said, indicating for him to sit.

He remained standing, turning his hat in his hand. “Mrs Minton, I’m calling out of concern for the situation in which you find yourself.”

She was immediately on edge. Had he heard something? Was there fresh news? She managed to sound calm. “What situation is that?”

“I don’t know if you’ve read the
Mercury
?”

“No,” she said.

He cleared his throat. “Well, there are rumours – and Stanley’s family are encouraging them – that the forensic evidence uncovered by the autopsy has raised some difficult questions, which suggests this inquest is going to be anything but straightforward.”

Marie could no longer hide her panic. “Why? What have they found?”

“I’m afraid I’ve failed to find that out. Nothing for you to worry about, I’m sure of that.” He carefully placed his bowler hat on the table in front of him and sat down facing her. “But I do believe you’re in need of advice. I see it as my task to provide it.”

She gave a sharp laugh. “I have no money, Mr Pickard, to pay you with. I’m afraid I’m helpless in the face of such rumours.”

“Not true. I see it as my duty to protect you from them. No money is needed.”

She was astonished by his generosity. “I can’t take up your time.”

“I was once your guardian and I feel it my duty to help. I will sit by your side every day at the inquest. I will advise you when to speak and when to keep silent. I would ask you to accept my advice, no matter what the provocation. Will you do that?”

She wanted to throw her arms around his neck in gratitude, but she simply murmured: “Thank you. I no longer feel so alone.”

*

Thursday 20
th
July turned out to be one of the hottest days of the year. Not that it made much of an impression inside the Old Court House where the inquest had been reconvened. On one side of the courtroom, the windows overlooked a stone wall and on the other side a bare yard. Consequently, most daylight was excluded. It meant the gas lamps remained permanently lit, forming flickering pools of yellow light against the dark, panelled walls.

When Marie arrived with John Pickard by her side, she was surprised to find that, unlike the first two days, the courtroom was half full. It increased her nervousness considerably. Pickard increased it even more by pointing out that there were now three journalists in attendance.

“Damned reporters; they’re like carrion crow,” he growled. “That fellow over there is from
The Illustrated Penny News
and over there – he’s from
The Daily Herald
. I see our friend from the
Mercury
is back again. Haven’t they got anything better to do?”

Marie wished fervently that they had. “Why are they all here? What do they expect to hear?”

“They live in hope of learning something that will sell their newspapers. The words ‘unexplained’ and ‘death’ attracts them like a rotting carcase attracts flies,” he muttered.