Truth Will Out (23 page)

‘Now what did I say? Soup can’t stick in your throat. It’s not made that way. It just slips down and you can float the bread if you want to. There’s no-one to see but you and me.’ She held up a hand. ‘Don’t say a word. I shall make it and, if I have to, I’ll feed it to you spoonful by spoonful. We’ve enough trouble to deal with without you getting run down.’

‘Thank you, Aunt Biddy.’ Giving in meekly, Maude made her way up the stairs. As she went she thought wistfully how happy the three of them had been together – herself, Aunt Biddy and Alice – and yet it had all been a sham. Fake. If only they could have stayed that way. If only it had been genuine.

She went into Alice’s room, sat on the chair next to the bed and stared long and hard at the spot where Alice had lain. Had it been a strain, pretending for every moment of every day? Had it been difficult not to show her true feelings for Lionel? Had she hated the fact that Lionel was sharing his bed with her, Maude? That must have hurt, surely?

Finding it all impossible to comprehend, she went back into her own bedroom where a photograph took pride of place on the mantelpiece. Lionel and Maude at their wedding, taken outside the church. Lionel looked every inch the sort of man a mother would want her daughter to wed – upright, handsome, healthy and charming. If she met him now, knowing nothing about the events of the last week, she would fall in love with him. No doubt about it.

Her throat was tight as she gazed at the likeness. Fate had stolen the man she thought he was and left her nothing but bitter memories of the man he really was. So should she blame herself for being gullible, for being so easily seduced? He had charmed her into a false relationship with the sole purpose of eventually stealing her wealth and disappearing. He had planned heartache for her, right from the start.

Maude picked up the photograph, deciding that she would never look on him again. Nor did she want to see again that young and hopeful young woman standing beside him with her hand in his. Slowly she dismantled the frame and retrieved the photograph. Carefully, with deliberate and restrained movements, she tore it into small pieces and threw them into the fire-grate. When winter came and the fires were lit, the proof of her undoing would be burned.

As she turned away, another thought struck her. ‘How did you manage to trick the vicar?’ she asked the absent Lionel. How had he persuaded the vicar that he was a single man? Or . . . Another thought struck her. Was Lionel really married to Alice? Perhaps he had also tricked Alice into believing they were man and wife. Would anyone ever know the whole story, she wondered?

Maybe she should do some investigating. Briefly the idea intrigued her but then she hesitated. Lionel had betrayed her and ruined her life and Alice was in a police cell because she had been cajoled by him into criminal ways. Did she, Maude, really want to know any more about the man who had broken their hearts?

Biddy wiped her eyes for the third time. They were streaming but that might be the onions she was chopping for the soup, or the tears she was shedding for their cheerful existence that had gone for good. She gripped the knife tightly, considering the idea that she might use it to stab Lionel Brent if by some miracle he suddenly stepped into her kitchen.

‘It would serve you right!’ she said. ‘Give you some of your own medicine. A wolf in sheep’s clothing – that’s you, Lionel Brent!’

Or
had been
him. She hoped he was dead, although, on the other hand, it would be good to know that he had been hanged for his crimes. Still, maybe drowning took longer, in which case he could recall his wickedness and maybe repent.

She found the right saucepan, tipped in some lentils, added the onions, cloves and salt and pepper. Moments later she smelled hot metal and rushed to the stove.

‘Lordy! I’ve forgotten the water!’ Shaken by the mistake, Biddy covered the contents of the pan with cold water, sending up a hiss of reproachful steam.

‘Sorry!’ she told it and set it on a low heat to simmer for forty minutes.

She stood in the larder and felt comforted by the familiar shelves crammed with the pickles and jams she had made over the year, by the crock of flour, the butter under its net cover and the lump of Cheddar cheese in its china container. Food. That was the answer to everything in Biddy’s mind. Now she would make bread – enough to go with the soup and leave a few slices for toast in the morning. Little and often. That would be the way to restore Maude’s appetite. Small tempting titbits of this and that at regular intervals, and gradually increasing portions so that whatever happened to Maude’s mind and spirit, her body would be nourished.

Eventually they would return to normal eating habits. This thought brought a smile to Biddy’s face and she assembled flour, milk and water, yeast and salt, and set about making the bread with her usual enthusiasm.

Forty minutes later she retrieved the softened lentils from the stove and beat in an ounce of butter. The bread was baked and supper was ready.

‘All’s right with the world,’ she whispered, and although that was far from the truth, it gave her hope for the future.

17th June, 1922. I thought the day would never end. It must have been the longest day of my life. It has all been such a strain I fear my mind is becoming less clear with every hour that passes. Today I made lentil soup and baked some bread and then spoiled everything by laying the table for four the way it used to be and poor Maude took one look at the table and burst into tears. When I tried to comfort her she pushed me away so fiercely that I fell backwards and hit my shoulder on the sideboard as I fell. I was terribly winded and for a while I couldn’t get myself up from the floor but by then poor Maude had fled up to their bedroom and locked herself in.

How could I have been so stupid? I’m so cross with myself. I didn’t mean to upset her in any way – it just happened. I tried to apologize through her bedroom door but she cried out, ‘Oh! Go away, Aunt Biddy!’ We haven’t spoken since and it is now twenty past ten and I am in bed. I ate some bread and drank some soup, which was delicious although I say it as shouldn’t. I left it in clear view in case Maude feels hungry and goes in search of food. I dread tomorrow and the day after that. Will we ever be happy again?

TEN

T
wo days later Maude plucked up her courage and ventured out of the house, encouraged by Derek Jayson, who had offered his car and himself as chauffeur if she needed it. It went against all her instincts to set foot outside
Fairways
but she did not want to become a prisoner in her own home and the sooner she could resume a place in the outside world the better it would be for her state of mind. Aunt Biddy had protested that it was much too early but Maude, hiding her anxiety, had insisted that she might
be
a victim but she didn’t want to behave like one.

As she climbed into the passenger seat she gave Derek Jayson a brief smile. ‘I hope you don’t object to this outfit,’ she said, settling herself and adjusting the veil, which she had arranged from the brim of her neat straw hat to cover the upper half of her face. ‘I feel rather foolish but I don’t want to . . .’ She shrugged self-consciously.

‘To be recognized,’ he finished. ‘I understand perfectly.’ He started the engine, stowed away the handle, climbed in and shut the door.

Maude did not add that the veil would also hide her reddened eyes from the curious.

‘I expect you thought I’d choose a pleasant run along the beach road, Mr Jayson, but I do feel very concerned about poor DC Fleet. The least I can do is visit him, and Aunt Biddy has made some calves’ foot jelly in a jar with a secure lid. At least I hope it’s secure. That’s why I’m holding it in my lap – to keep it upright. It’s most nutritious – if he is out of the coma, that is. If he’s unconscious he won’t be able to eat it. It doesn’t keep well so if he cannot have it I shall ask the nurse to give it to someone else.’

‘It’s very thoughtful of you, Mrs . . . Miss er . . .’

Maude straightened her back. ‘You must call me Mrs Brent until . . . until I learn otherwise. That is what the solicitor advised when he called in yesterday. If they find my husband’s body I shall know I am a widow but will still be Mrs Brent, although . . .’ She took a quick breath and plunged on. ‘It may be . . . You may have heard the rumours that our marriage may have been illegal. That is going to be investigated when I have recovered some of my energy.’

I shall also have to visit the doctor
, she reminded herself,
to discover whether or not I am with child. I think not but would like to be reassured
. It was ironic that she had spent so long hoping for a child and now she was forced to hope it was not so.

He smiled at her. ‘At least we have a nice day for the outing. Sunshine and very little breeze. I hope I’m not driving too fast for you, Mrs Brent. You must tell me if I am.’

‘No. It’s very pleasant. I rarely travel by car. It’s usually my bicycle, Shanks’ pony or the train!’

‘I’m always at your service, Mrs Brent – the hotel business permitting, of course. If you need me at any time . . .’

‘That’s very generous but you must allow me to reimburse you for the fuel.’

He protested that he wouldn’t hear of such a thing.

After a long silence, Maud again turned to him. ‘I may take you up on your generous offer,’ she said. ‘I do rather want to make another call at some time. I want to go and see Alice Crewe.’

‘But isn’t she in prison?’ He was so surprised he narrowly missed colliding with a sheep that had burst through the hedge ahead of them and appeared frozen with fear at the sight of the noisy contraption heading towards it.

As they edged carefully past it, Maude turned to glance back. ‘Oh! It has gone back into its field. Thank goodness. It might have caused an accident, wandering about in the road.’ She checked that the calves’ foot jelly had not leaked and, satisfied, continued. ‘Yes, she is in prison, but I want to see her if it’s possible. We were very good friends before all this happened and I don’t know if she has any friends or family. She might be quite alone in the world.’

He withheld further comment and for a long time they drove along without speaking. Maude, apparently busy with her thoughts, seemed to have lost track of time.

At last he said, ‘I’m astonished at how . . . how brave you are being, Mrs Brent. Most women would have crumbled under such a blow. Such a complex set of adverse circumstances. I do congratulate you.’

Maude laughed shakily. ‘I have surprised myself, Mr Jayson, if the truth be told. But you see I have my aunt to look after and this upheaval has been very bad for her. She’s getting on in years and is easily confused. I realized I have to be strong for both of us or neither of us will recover from it . . .’ She glanced round suddenly with recognition. ‘Oh! We have made very good time! We are almost on the outskirts of Hastings already. What a marvellous thing, the motor car.’

When she arrived at the hospital and asked to see DC Fleet, she was told that because she was not a family member she would not be permitted to visit him.

‘His mother is with him,’ the nurse told her. ‘He is making progress and has blinked his eyes once or twice but he doesn’t respond to speech yet.’ She eyed Maude curiously. ‘It was a terrible thing that happened.’

‘Yes.’ Maude found herself feeling guilty simply because she was Lionel’s wife – or thought she was. ‘How are the other policemen that were injured?’

‘PC Adams? Oh he’s quite cheerful considering the wound in his neck. We’re trying to keep the pain at bay. His wife is with him. A lucky escape if you look at it that way. He might have died from loss of blood and they have a baby daughter . . . The other constable has gone home with his arm in a splint.’ She hesitated, glanced cautiously around then lowered her voice to ask if there was any news of Mr Brent. ‘I mean, is he dead?’

Inevitably the blunt question shocked her but Maude steeled herself not to overreact. She would have to get used to dealing with such questions. Trying to keep her voice steady she said, ‘There is no news. None at all.’ Afraid of what might follow she asked quickly, ‘Do you think DC Fleet’s mother would speak to me? I’ll understand if she refuses.’

‘I’ll ask her. She can only say no.’ Pushing open the ward doors, the nurse disappeared briefly behind some curtains then reappeared, followed by a thickset woman. As they drew near, Maude saw from the woman’s blotchy face that she had been crying.

‘Mrs Fleet, I’m so very sorry,’ she cried, stepping forward. ‘I wanted to know how your son is and I brought him some calves’ foot jelly.’

The nurse, looking nervous, said, ‘I must get on with my work,’ and hurried away leaving the two women face to face.

‘Calves’ foot jelly? He can’t bear the stuff. Sorry.’

‘Oh. Never mind.’ Fearing hostility, Maude stumbled on. ‘The nurse . . . er . . . She seems very hopeful about your son.’

Mrs Fleet swallowed. ‘That blow on the head. They say he’ll recover but . . .’ Her eyes filled with fresh tears. ‘He’ll certainly never be a policeman again. It was his life.’ Words suddenly tumbled out. ‘His father was a police sergeant before he died. He caught pneumonia one winter . . . They were tailing a suspected thief and it was snowing hard. He came home frozen through. Robert adored his father. My son’s so like him. Very ambitious.’

She swayed a little and Maude took hold of her arm. ‘Come and sit down, Mrs Fleet,’ she urged. ‘This must have been a terrible shock.’

‘Bit of a shock for you as well!’

They found a row of seats and for a few moments sat together wordlessly. Maude didn’t know what to say that might be helpful.

Mrs Fleet shook her head wearily. ‘I’m not blaming you, Mrs Brent. Please don’t think that. That husband of yours has treated you cruelly. He’s a monster! I hope he is dead – for everyone’s sake! The world will be a better place without him.’ She put a hand on Maude’s arm. ‘Forget him, dear, and start again. We’ll have to find a way for my son to make a new life. I shall try to interest him in art. He was good at art when he was in school. I’ve still got some little pictures he painted years ago.’ She smiled faintly. ‘Watercolours of flowers mostly. You must do the same. Find a
decent
man, Mrs Brent. Make a new life for yourself. It’s all you can do.’