The Emerald Comb (29 page)

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘Deeper. Another foot.’

She sighed, and set to work.

Finally he pronounced the trench suitable, and bade her help him haul Georgia’s body alongside it. Together they rolled the corpse out of the blanket and into the hole, where it fell with a dull thud.

Bartholomew picked up his spade and threw a shovelful of earth on top of the body.

‘Wait!’ hissed Agnes, remembering that Georgia had been wearing her silver and emerald hair comb. She kneeled on the side of the trench and leaned in, raking through the dead woman’s hair with her fingers, trying to find the comb. Where was it? She must find it. It was too good to bury – it should be hers, now.

Bartholomew caught her arm and pulled her up. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Her comb…’

‘Leave it!’ He began quickly shovelling the mound of earth into the trench. With a sigh she followed suit. It was easier work than the digging, but her shoulders were tired and aching now. It was all she could do to keep going.

Eventually the hole was filled. Bartholomew spread the spare earth around the surrounding flower beds. He tramped down the earth with his feet.

Agnes gathered armfuls of dead autumn leaves which had blown under the hedge at the end of the garden, and scattered them over the disturbed earth. Despite her efforts, even in the faint moonlight it was clear something had happened here. How could Bartholomew think for a moment that Old George would not notice? Or Mrs Fowles, on her way to the kitchen garden? But she was too tired to think about this. He must have a plan, she assumed, and she would simply have to trust him. With her life.

‘We’ve done enough,’ he announced. ‘Bring the blanket up to your room. Hide it with your dirty clothes tonight.’

‘How are we going to explain where Mrs St Clair has gone?’ she asked.

‘We’re not,’ he replied. ‘I’ll explain the plan tomorrow. For now, my love, you need to get some sleep. Bring Barty to the cradle in your room. You must rise tomorrow at your usual time, as though nothing has changed.’

Agnes was puzzled but too tired to think about it. Bartholomew took the shovels back to the stables while she went back into the house with the muddy blanket as instructed. Inside she removed her ruined shoes at the door, and padded upstairs to her room in her stockings. She shoved the muddy blanket under her bed, then went back downstairs, wiping away traces of mud as she went. Bartholomew was in his study, with a large brandy glass in his hand. As she entered he poured another for her.

‘You’ll need this,’ he said, and she drank it gratefully, the sharp fruity taste warming her from the inside.

He kissed her. ‘Go, sleep. Be strong.’

She fetched the sleeping Barty from Georgia’s room, and took him to her room. Kissing his soft head, she laid him down on her narrow bed. ‘Perhaps you can be a twin,’ she whispered, thinking of her own little son, miles away in Lincolnshire.

When she eventually lay down too, still clothed in her muddy dress, she cuddled little Barty under her blanket and fell immediately into a dreamless sleep.

Bartholomew’s sleep was not nearly as untroubled. His mind was working overtime, as he worked out the details of his plan. He felt unhindered now by the effects of the brandy, and the digging had energised him. It was not until after the hall clock had struck four that he finally dozed off, only to dream of white arms emerging from the earth, clutching at his legs as he walked past, dragging him down into a muddy grave. He woke with the dawn, sweating, feeling more tired than when he had gone to bed. The events of the night were still so vivid – Georgia’s legs twitching as Agnes held the pillow on her face, Georgia’s still, white face staring up at him from the trench, Agnes’s frightened eyes, watching him, trusting him to make it all right for them.

He rose, dressed quickly and went downstairs. Polly was still setting a fire in the breakfast room.

‘Oh, sir, you be up early,’ she said. ‘I ain’t finished the fires and Mrs Fowles isn’t come yet to prepare breakfast, but I’ll fetch you some tea if you’d like it?’

‘Don’t worry about the fire – I’ll light it. But I would like some tea. Thank you.’

She curtsied and scurried off towards the kitchen. Bartholomew lit the fire then sat in an armchair, considering the day ahead. There was no sign yet of Agnes this morning.

Polly was back in five minutes with the tea things. He watched her as she arranged them on the breakfast table, poured him a cup, and set it on a side-table next to his chair. When this was done, she stood before him and pulled something out of her pocket.

‘Sir, I found this just inside the kitchen door, on the floor. Can’t think how it could’ve got there. Has the mistress been up and about?’ She handed him Georgia’s silver and emerald comb.

His stomach lurched as he took it, and turned it over in his hand. He fought to keep his voice steady as he answered her. ‘No, Mrs St Clair has not been up. Thank you for returning this.’ She could have kept it, he realised. But she’d chosen to be honest. That would make what he had to tell her all the more difficult.

She curtsied and headed towards the door.

He called her back. ‘Polly, don’t go. There is something I need to talk to you about.’

She turned to him, her eyes wide as though she was expecting a reprimand. ‘Yes, sir?’

‘You are, I believe, missing Brighton, and your friends and family there?’

‘Well, I…’

‘It’s all right. Of course you are. I see it now – it was wrong of us to take you away from there. But while Agnes was away, there was no one else. You did her job admirably.’

She blushed, and gave a little curtsey in acknowledgment of the compliment. ‘I did my best, sir.’

‘You did very well. And I shall write as much in the reference I shall give you.’

She gasped. ‘Are you dismissing me, sir?’

‘With three months’ pay, and the fare back to Brighton, and a good reference – yes. You will be happier among your friends. It is unfair of us to keep you here.’

‘I don’t mind, sir, really I don’t! What’ve I done wrong? Is it because of the comb? I didn’t take it, really I didn’t! More likely it were Agnes…’

‘No, it’s nothing to do with the comb. You’ve done nothing wrong, nothing at all. Don’t make a fuss, otherwise I’ll not give you the three months’ pay. Now go, pack your box. Old George will take you to the station in time for the midday train.’ It was harsh, but necessary. He watched as her eyes filled with tears. She gulped back a sob and ran from the room. He wondered whether three months’ pay was generous enough. Perhaps he should have given her more. But too much might have made her suspicious.

He went through to his study, wrapped the comb in a handkerchief and tucked it away at the back of a hidden drawer. Maybe he’d give it to Agnes, some day. Or maybe he wouldn’t. It would remind him too much of Georgia.

There was a tap at the door of the study. It was Agnes. She looked as though she had barely slept. Her hair was awry and there was mud on the hem of her gown. The silly woman, still wearing the same dress as yesterday. Did she not have something else to wear?

‘Get back upstairs,’ he hissed. ‘Change your clothes. Don’t let Polly or Mrs Fowles see you like that, or they might suspect something.’

‘I-I just needed some tea,’ she stuttered.

‘There’s some in the breakfast room. Help yourself, quickly now. And take it up to Georgia’s room. Stay in there with Barty as you normally would, and let no one in.’

‘But, I…’

‘Just do what I say, woman.’

She turned and left without another word. Bartholomew buried his face in his hands and slumped forward in his chair. God, this was so hard. And he still had to dismiss Mrs Fowles and Old George. But that would have to wait until tomorrow. He needed Old George today.

A sound in the hallway alerted him to Mrs Fowles’s arrival. He took a deep breath and went out to her.

‘Mrs Fowles, good morning,’ he said.

‘Good morning to you, too, sir. Getting colder it is. Old George reckons as we’ll have a frost tonight. About time too, this late in December.’

‘Indeed. Now then, I’m about ready for some breakfast. I’m afraid you’ll have less help today, as I’ve had to dismiss Polly.’

‘Dismiss Polly! But why? She’s a good girl, I always thought…’

‘I thought so too. But nevertheless, I’ve dismissed her, and I don’t need to explain my actions to you. Can you ask Old George to take her to the station for the twelve o’clock train?’

‘She’s leaving today?’

‘That’s what I said. Now, about that breakfast?’

‘Of course, sir. Right away, sir. Libby’ll be here soon to help me I hope, since I don’t have my Polly no more.’ Mrs Fowles bustled away towards the kitchen, muttering to herself.

It was a difficult day. Old George took Polly to the station as planned. Bartholomew told Mrs Fowles that Georgia was sleeping, and that Agnes was nursing both her and the baby as usual. Mrs Fowles spent the day plodding up and down the stairs, leaving trays of food and bottles of milk outside Georgia’s room, and eyeing Bartholomew with suspicion every time their paths crossed. In the late afternoon he called her into his study.

‘Mrs Fowles, how long have you and Old George been working for my family?’

‘Ooh sir, I would think nigh on thirty year now, for you, and your father before you. I remember you as a bonny young lad.’

‘As long as that? Well, you’ve served us well.’ He drummed his fingers on the desk, trying to work out the best way of saying this.

‘Mrs Fowles, do you know what a pension is?’

‘Well, I, er…’

‘It’s where an employer continues to pay someone after that person stops working for them, due to old age. It’s to thank them for long and loyal service.’

‘Yes sir, I did know…’

‘And the time has come, Mrs Fowles, for me to pay you and Old George a pension. You will lose the cottage of course, but you have a son, I believe – in Kent, isn’t he? Your pension will be dependent on you moving to Kent to live with or near your son. You will both continue to get half your current salary from now until the ends of your lives.’ He looked up at her gaping mouth. ‘I think that is fair, don’t you? More than fair. Pack today, and leave on the morning train. I shall pay your travel expenses. Anything too large to carry can be sent on afterwards – leave me your son’s address.’

‘But, Mr St Clair, excuse me for speaking out of turn, but what’re you doing? First Polly, then me and my George. What about Libby, and Agnes? Are they also to be sent away?’

‘Yes, they too. Could you tell Libby for me – ask her to come to me here for a month’s wages and a reference. I’ll talk to Agnes later.’

‘Are you and the mistress leaving here, then?’

‘It’s really none of your business, but if you must know, yes. I am taking Georgia away, for her health. It is clear that she has not thrived here at North Kingsley. I am shutting up the house. We’ll be leaving by the end of the week and I don’t expect to come back. So there’ll be nothing for you to do here. Half-pay as a pension should be perfectly adequate.’

He stood up, to indicate the interview was over. She nodded her head and turned to leave.

‘Mrs Fowles?’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Thank you. This wasn’t easy for me.’

‘No, sir. Nor for me. Look after your wife and your little boy. I wish you well.’ She sniffed, raised her chin and left the room with her head held high.

Chapter Twenty: Hampshire, July 2013

The summer was shaping up to be a good one. There were only another two weeks until the children broke up from school, and I was trying to make the most of my free time. We’d decided not to start any major work on the house until the kids went back to school in September, so we could enjoy our first summer here in North Kingsley. I had a long list of stuff to do before they broke up – planning the kitchen, deciding on its floor, units and colour scheme, lining up plumbers and electricians so we could hit the ground running in September, gardening and, of course, researching who the bones might have belonged to.

Despite all these items on my to-do list, it was a beautiful Friday and Irish Hill beckoned. I decided to take a walk up there in the morning, after dropping off Thomas at school. There’d be time enough to progress the chores or, more likely, the research, in the afternoon. It hadn’t rained for weeks so the usually muddy track across the fields was dry and rutted. There were a few sheep grazing on the parched grass, who regarded me forlornly as I walked by. Up on the hill, the gorse and hawthorn had finished flowering so there was less colour than in the spring, but the view was as magnificent as ever. A heat haze made the horizon shimmer, and fields of wheat were beginning to ripen. In another month there’d be patches of sunshine gold all across the countryside, cheering the souls of all who looked upon it.

I needed my soul cheering. Simon, again, late home night after night. Refusing to talk to me if I tried to probe into why. It wasn’t Amy. He’d arranged to meet her in London in a week’s time, and although he was nervous about the prospect, we’d talked it over many times, and he was confident he was doing the right thing, in the right way. No, there was something else going on.

I climbed to the top of the hill and sat on the east-facing bench, to feel the morning sun on my face. A red kite wheeled above me, its splayed wing feathers silhouetted against the pale blue sky. I still occasionally wondered whether Simon was having an affair. His late evenings and evasive answers pointed to something like that, but his overall demeanour didn’t. He acted like someone with a secret, but not a
guilty
secret. Just something he didn’t yet feel as though he could tell me.

A thought struck me, as I watched the kite swoop down and disappear into a copse. Maybe Simon was tracking down his birth parents? Maybe Amy contacting him had made him want to trace his own roots? But if so, why on earth didn’t he talk to me about it? I’d support him, he knew I would. I’d do it for him, if he asked. And then I’d trace his ancestry further back. I’d relish having another genealogy project!

The sun was too warm on my face and I felt as though I might be burning, so I stood and stretched, and moved to the west-facing bench, my back to the sun. I supposed you’d need to be careful tracing your birth parents, and be prepared for some shocks. It was a bit like genealogical research, although of course, much closer to home. You never knew quite what you might find. What if your birth mother was a prostitute, or your father a criminal? How would that make you feel?