The Emerald Comb (28 page)

First, they must hide the body. But where? It had to be somewhere she would never be found. He shook his leg free from Agnes’s grasp and walked over to the window. Agnes slumped to the floor, her shoulders heaving with hoarse sobs. Barty watched as he pulled back the curtain a little, and peered out into the dark night. It had stopped raining. He could just make out the hill, where the Irish navvies had camped while they built the railway, a deeper black than the surrounding sky. There was a half moon, its light diffused by the cloud cover. Enough light to see by but not too much. He gazed around the shadowed garden at the back of the house. Perhaps…later, when Mrs Fowles had left the house and gone to the cottage she shared with Old George, when Libby had left for the night…he struggled to remember which way Polly’s room faced, on the top floor. The front. It was Agnes’s room which overlooked the garden. If they were quiet, they’d not be seen. He made a decision. Yes, it could be done. But it would take both of them, all their strength.

‘Agnes, get up. Listen to me.’

She moaned, softly.

‘Get up. Come on, you will need to help me.’

She crawled away from Georgia’s bed, and pulled herself to her feet using the chair near the fire. She was trembling, and her shoulders were slumped. Bartholomew took a step forward, ready to catch her if she should fall. He took hold of her hands.

‘Look at me.’

She slowly raised her head, but kept her eyes averted from his.

‘Look at me, I said.’ His voice was harsh. ‘Agnes, you must be strong. You will hang for this, if it is found out. Do you want to hang for it?’

She shook her head. Tears welled up against her lower lashes.

He pulled her towards him and wrapped his arms around her. ‘No. And neither do I. But we will both hang if she is found, and murder is suspected. We must hide her.’

‘Where?’

He nodded towards the window. ‘Out there. But later – when the household is quiet. Now, I must go and check whether Mrs Fowles and Libby have left yet. You must stay here, take care of Barty.’

She pushed him away, and stared at him. ‘No! Don’t leave me alone with her!’

‘She can’t hurt you. Besides, you must watch over Barty.’ His tiny son was watching them still from his crib. With a jolt, Bartholomew realised that the baby was all he had left of his wife. He felt a surge of love for his son. Whatever happened, the child must be well looked after and provided for.

He went to the door, and turned to look back at Agnes. She sat down heavily on her usual chair by the fire, her face in her hands. ‘I’ll be back soon,’ he said. He picked up a lit candle, removed the key from the door, went out into the corridor and softly pulled the door closed behind him. He paused a moment, then locked it, and tucked the key into his waistcoat pocket.

Downstairs all was quiet and dark. Cupping the candle flame with one hand he checked the main rooms, but all were empty. He went along the corridor to the kitchen, and found Mrs Fowles humming to herself, preparing meat for the following day’s meals.

‘Oh, sir, you startled me!’ She wiped her hands on her apron and gave a little curtsey.

‘I am sorry, I did not mean to.’ It was most unusual for him to come to the kitchen. Indeed he could not remember ever coming here before, since he moved in. He wondered whether there was guilt written on his face, and turned away from her.

‘Is there something you need?’ she asked.

‘No, not especially.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I was coming to see whether you had finished for the evening. But I see you are still busy. When that is done, you are dismissed until tomorrow.’

‘Yes, sir, thank you, sir.’ She frowned slightly at him, and continued cutting the meat.

‘Has Libby gone home?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And Polly?’

‘Gone to her room already, sir. I said she could, once she’d cleared the dining room.’

‘Good. Right then, I’ll leave you to it.’ He nodded to her, and went to his study. There was no fire lit, as he was not in the habit of using this room in the evening. But the damp chill of the room and empty grate fitted his mood. He put his candle on a side table, poured himself a brandy and sat down to wait until the house was clear.

He could hear the ticking of the hall clock, and an occasional faint sound from the kitchen. How easy it had been to end a life! As easy as starting one – no, easier, he thought, as he recalled the miscarriages Georgia had suffered before having Barty. He ran through the events of the evening once more, wondering again why he had nodded at Agnes, as she stood holding the pillow. One tiny nod, and his wife’s life ended, his own and Agnes’s in jeopardy if it was ever discovered. Why that nod? What had he been thinking? He stared at his brandy glass. It was the brandy; he’d had several before going upstairs, it had clouded his brain and muddled his thinking, making him nod when he did not know what he was agreeing to. Disgusted with himself, he threw his glass at the empty grate, where it smashed, shattering across the hearth.

There was a tap at the door, and Mrs Fowles peeped in. ‘Everything all right, sir? Only I heard a crash…’

Bartholomew glared at her. Could he not be left alone with his thoughts for five minutes? ‘I dropped my glass.’

‘Oh sir, I’ll fetch a brush.’

‘No need. Leave it till the morning. Impossible to see all the splinters by candlelight. Please, leave me be.’

She dipped her head and backed out of the door. ‘Sorry, sir. Good night, sir.’

Bartholomew shut the door firmly behind her, and sat down again. His hand reached automatically for the decanter and before he knew it, there was another glass in his hand, a sip of brandy in his mouth, and the welcoming, comforting glow of it easing its way down to his gut. It would give him strength for what he still had to do that night. He leaned back in his chair and forced his mind to think forwards to what had to be done, not backwards on what could not be changed.

Time seemed to slow down as he formulated his plan. Eventually the kitchen noises ceased, and a discreet click of the back door latch told him Mrs Fowles had left for the night. The hall clock chimed eleven. Would Polly be asleep by now? Probably, as she had to get up at six to clean the grates and set the fires. But it’d be better to give her a bit longer, to be safe. He resolved to wait another hour.

Agnes heard the distant hall clock strike eleven. Still no sign of Mr Bartholomew returning. She glanced again at the body of her mistress, lying cold and still, so still! on the bed. The flickering firelight cast ever-moving shadows around the room, shifting like spirits, dancing and mocking her. They were coming for her. Georgia’s ghost had summoned them, to avenge her death and punish her murderer. Murderer! Yes, that was what she was. She had taken a life. And the life of a poor, innocent young girl whose only crime was to be married to the man Agnes loved. But he was as much to blame as she was. He had nodded to her – he had wanted her to kill Georgia, hadn’t he? She had only done what she was told. That was all. She was a servant, and had simply carried out his wishes. It was his fault. All his fault. He’d made her into a murderer. They’d been happy the way they were, but now she was in danger of being caught and hanged. She’d loved Georgia, like a daughter or younger sister, and now she’d lost her. And little Barty had lost his mother. Barty! She’d almost forgotten about him. He was still sitting up, sucking on a corner of his blanket, watching her. As she caught his eye he began to grizzle and lifted his little arms towards her to be picked up. Instinctively, she went to him and gathered him up. She turned her back on the body in the bed, not wanting Barty to see his dead mother. Had he seen what had happened here? Would he remember? No, he was far too young. Even so, the thought that he had been in the room while she had smothered the life out of his mother was unbearable. He began to grizzle more insistently, hungry now. She offered him the knuckle of her little finger to suck on, and rocked him gently. ‘Hush now, little Barty,’ she whispered. ‘Aggie’s here. Aggie won’t let anyone hurt you.’ She owed it to him, she realised, to make it up to him for the loss of his mother. Not that Georgia had ever been much of a mother to him. She kissed his soft head and cheek. ‘Hush, Barty, my sweet. Aggie –
Mama’s
here. Mama loves you.’

Downstairs, the hall clock struck twelve. A minute later Agnes heaved a sigh of relief as she heard the key turn in the lock. Thank God he’d returned. If she was left much longer in the room with Georgia she felt as though she would lose her mind.

Bartholomew looked drawn and haggard. Had the spirits been tormenting him for the murder, too? It would not be fair if they were punishing only her. The need to get out of the room, away from Georgia’s still, white body, was overwhelming.

‘Barty’s hungry,’ she told him as he entered. ‘I think I’ll need to give him some milk to get him back off to sleep.’

‘Very well,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Fetch what you need from the kitchen. Mrs Fowles has gone home.’

Agnes put the fretful baby down in the cradle and hurried off. Thank goodness he’d let her out. As she passed the back door on the way to the kitchen, she paused a moment. What if she ran away? Her cloak was hanging beside the door. She could slip it on and go out into the night. Get herself far away from here. Go back to her parents and her son. Leave Bartholomew to deal with his dead wife. But if she ran away he might blame her for the killing. When she had only done what he wanted her to do, hadn’t she? It was all his fault. The authorities would not think that, though. They would always take a gentleman’s word over that of a servant. And wherever she went, one day she’d be found. In any case, she knew that leaving Bartholomew was the one thing she could not do. She loved him more now than ever. And Barty needed her too. She could not abandon the poor little mite. Somehow, together, they would have to find a way out of this.

She went on to the kitchen, and filled an earthenware baby’s bottle with milk from the jug in the pantry. She hurried back up the stairs to Georgia’s room, and noted the relief in Bartholomew’s eyes as she entered the room. He must have wondered if she would run away, too.

Barty guzzled the milk hungrily, gazing up at her with wide blue eyes as he suckled. He wouldn’t miss his mother, she thought. He was far more attached to her than he’d been to Georgia.

When the bottle was finished, Barty’s eyes were half-closed. She expertly rocked him to sleep and laid him in his cradle, tucking a woollen shawl around him. He looked so peaceful, so innocent. Oh, to be a baby with not a care in the world!

Agnes looked up from the cradle, at Bartholomew. It was time to deal with Georgia. She steeled herself to be ready to do whatever he asked of her.

He walked over to the bed. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We must change her nightdress.’

Agnes shuddered. ‘Why?’

‘Because we must send the usual items to the laundry. There must be nothing missing. Put that new nightdress on her. The one you’ve been working on.’ He gestured towards Agnes’s sewing things beside her chair.

‘It’s not finished…’

‘She’ll not mind,’ said Bartholomew, with a wry smile. ‘Come, help me with her.’

Bartholomew held Georgia in a sitting position while Agnes tugged the nightdress off her, and replaced it with the new one. She felt a momentary pang of regret that all her hard work had gone to waste, and only a corpse would ever wear it.

They wrapped the body in a blanket. ‘Help me lift her,’ said Bartholomew. Agnes grasped the foot end of the blanket and together they managed to get the body downstairs, along the kitchen corridor and out of the back door. For such a slight girl, she was surprisingly difficult to carry. Exhausted, Agnes dropped her load as soon as they were out of the house.

‘Come on, not much further,’ urged Bartholomew. Agnes stretched her aching back muscles, gritted her teeth and hauled again. How far did he want to take the body? With a shudder Agnes recalled how he’d stared out of the window at the far-off hill. Surely he didn’t expect her to carry Georgia that far? Thankfully, instead of going out to the lane, he directed her into the garden at the back of the house, and to a spot beside the wall, where a couple of straggly rose bushes climbed, last summer’s rose hips still hanging forlornly from them.

‘Put her down here,’ he commanded. Agnes did so with relief, and arched her aching back.

‘Wait here,’ he said, as he ran off in the direction of the stables.

Agnes shivered. It wasn’t particularly cold for the time of year, but she was dressed only in her everyday gown of light brown wool. She folded her arms and tucked her hands under her armpits. It was all right for Georgia, lying down there wrapped in a blanket. Not that a corpse needed to be warm. She considered rolling the body out of the blanket so she could wrap it around herself, but at that moment Bartholomew returned.

He was carrying two shovels. He passed the smaller one to her, and began to dig. She watched for a moment, then as he looked up and nodded at her, she began to dig too.

The month had been wet and mild, and the ground was soft and easy to dig. What if it had been frozen – what would they have done then? Well, it wasn’t, and they were lucky. She concentrated on digging, following his instructions to make it deeper, wider, straighter. The earth smelled rich and damp. She knew that the smell would always remind her of this terrible night. Now and again she glanced back at the house.

‘What if someone sees us?’ she asked.

‘Who could see us?’ he replied, breathless from the exertion.

He was right. There was only Polly and little Barty in the house. She hoped Barty was still asleep. Polly’s room in the attic was at the front of the house – it was her own window at the top on this side, from which she imagined curious eyes watching them, judging them. She shook the thought out of her head and got on with the job at hand. It was hard work, and sweat prickled her back beneath her woollen dress.

Soon they had a trench, long enough for Georgia’s body, and three feet deep. Agnes stopped digging and leaned on her spade.

‘That’s big enough, surely,’ she said.