The Boat House (25 page)

‘I think Ida will be reasonable. She’s in charge at the moment so I’ll ask her. Mrs Matlowe is making very slow progress and gets agitated at times – mainly about a letter she is writing which she wants to finish. She says it’s to the solicitor about her will but Ida says there is no hurry and it should wait until she is stronger.’

Abruptly Donald put down his knife and fork. ‘I have this nightmare, Marianne,’ he said, suddenly earnest, ‘that Mrs Matlowe has another heart attack and dies . . . and Richard Preston seizes his chance and whisks the children back to America, taking you with him to look after them!’ He swallowed hard, then, aware that he was being too serious, added humorously, ‘I wake up screaming! The neighbours are complaining!’

Marianne tried not to laugh. ‘I think perhaps a cup of Ovaltine at bedtime,’ she suggested. ‘Cook swears by it!’

‘Marianne!’

‘I’m sorry. I promise I won’t disappear to the far corners of America without warning you.’ She smiled. ‘Does that reassure you?’

He nodded. ‘It’s not ideal but I’ll settle for that.’

Cook was making a minced beef pie the following day when Lorna came into the kitchen with a message from Mrs Matlowe.

Holding out a key she said, ‘She wants you to fetch a sealed envelope from her top drawer and a pencil and rubber and a book from the shelf which is large enough to lean the paper on . . .’ She stopped for breath and, ignoring Cook’s startled expression, went on. ‘And you are not to open the envelope or tell her sister or Marianne about the letter or anything.’

‘What on earth . . .?’

‘On pain of dismissal!’

‘Dismissal?’ Cook regarded her with deep suspicion. ‘Is this some kind of leg-pull, Lorna? Because if it is you’ll regret it. I’m not in the mood for . . .’

‘She said it, I swear. She said she thinks she can trust you.’

‘Does she? Hmm. Who’s the letter from?’

‘It’s not
from
anyone. The way she said it and the pencil and everything, I think she’s writing it
to
someone.’

‘Lordy! Now I’ve heard everything.’ Nonplussed, she abandoned the pie and rinsed her hands under the tap. ‘Best do it, I suppose, but I hope I’m not in the firing line if anyone finds out about it.’

She picked up the key and hurried upstairs, grumbling to herself about ‘being put upon’ and ‘being made to feel deceitful’. In the study she found the sealed envelope, picked up a pencil and rubber, and after a quick search, took down an atlas from the bookshelf. ‘I don’t know what you’re up to, Madam,’ she muttered, ‘but I’m not too happy about it.’

She found Mrs Matlowe in bed waiting for her. ‘At last!’ she said ungraciously, as Cook handed her the required objects. ‘Thank you, Cook. That will be all for now.’

Cook said dubiously, ‘Should you be doing this, Madam? That is, you are meant to be takings things easy.’

Ignoring the question Mrs Matlowe said, ‘And no one knows about this. You’ve told no one?’

‘No, Madam. Only me and Lorna know.’ She frowned. ‘Will you be able to write like that? Should I help you sit up a bit?’

‘Thank you, Cook. It might be better.’

Cook did her best to raise the patient to a sitting position and was shocked to note how thin her employer had become. Normally, dressed in her usual black bombazine, Mrs Matlowe gave an impression of substance, but here in bed she seemed frail and her arms, protruding from her nightdress, looked thin and somehow helpless. Cook felt a twinge of compassion for her. ‘Do you need a bedjacket?’ she asked.

‘Perhaps I should. There’s a blue one somewhere – sent to me by poor little Ivan’s mother. She knitted it when Ida told her I was ill. She was so pleased that I took the girls to the funeral.’

Cook found it and helped Mrs Matlowe to put it on. ‘Anything else while I’m here?’ she asked.

‘No thank you.’

As Cook reached the door she turned for a last look and Mrs Matlowe said, ‘Remember!’ and put a warning finger to her lips.

‘I will,’ Cook replied and went downstairs feeling deeply troubled.

Georgina breathed a sigh of relief as Cook’s footsteps receded. ‘Please God,’ she whispered, ‘let her keep her promise not to tell a soul. If she does keep it I shall give her a small raise for her loyalty.’

She planned to write the last few pages of her confession in pencil and to copy it in ink as soon as she was up and about again.

I was walking in the garden one day, trying to think of a way to make Leonora’s body stay down in the water out of sight. One glimpse at her corpse was as much as I could bear. I knew there was no way I could move it from the boat house altogether so I would have to keep it out of sight below the water. I was standing beside the rockery when the idea came to me. I would use some of the rocks to wedge her in the punt then use the rest to sink the punt with her in it. After some thought I decided to come down in the early hours when no one was about and somehow get Leonora’s body into the punt. I knew it would be a difficult and utterly revolting task but I felt that it was part of my punishment from God and I deserved it. I promised myself that I would not utter a word of complaint . . .

Georgina sat back against the pillow, breathing deeply as her mind replayed the ghastly scene. She wished she had asked Cook to bring up a pot of tea but it was too late now and she would press on until it was finished.

That night I crept out of the house and down to the boat house. It was a very dark night and I could use no light in case I was seen by someone, so as I let myself in to the boat house I was glad that the worst of the scene would be masked by the gloom. I had no wish to see Leonora’s face. First I had to pull her out of the water and on to the wooden walkway, which was a mammoth task. I was revolted by the thought of touching her and when at last my outstretched hand caught hold of her floating body, I touched only her sodden clothing and pulled her towards the walkway . . .

Georgina shuddered at the memory, dropped the pencil and covered her face with her hands. Her heart was racing and her insides seemed to churn as she relived the nightmare moments.

Keep calm
, she told herself.
Mr Prendergast told me to be kind to my heart. I must not get upset.
Was she being kind to her heart by writing her confession? Definitely not! But there was no way round it. She reminded herself that she was obeying her conscience and that was of paramount importance in the sight of the Lord.

Somehow I dragged the body on to the walkway and then I used the boat hook to pull the punt towards me. Even now I can’t imagine how I managed to roll Leonora into the punt but I did. I was by then very sick and shivering with revulsion and exhausted by my efforts . . .

By this time the moon had moved across the sky and had begun to shine in at one of the far windows, giving the interior of the boat house a ghostly glow, which was too much for Georgina to bear and she suddenly gave in to her emotions and fled from the place, stopping only to throw a few old sacks over Leonora’s inert form. She locked the door and crept back to the house where she poured herself a large glass of brandy and stumbled up the stairs to her bedroom . . .

A timid knock at the door now startled her, breaking into her memories. Quickly she pushed paper and pencil under the pillow and arranged her features into what she hoped was a neutral expression. ‘Come in!’

It was Lorna with a tray. ‘Cook thought you might fancy a pot of tea,’ she said.

‘Oh! How terribly kind of her! I appreciate the thought. Please thank her for me, Lorna. Would you pour me a cup and then I needn’t balance the tray on the bedclothes. Two sugars, Lorna. Ah! Garibaldi biscuits!’ She forced a smile. ‘My favourites.’

Really, she thought gratefully, she may have underestimated her staff. They were being very kind. She sipped the tea and declared it suitable. ‘You may take the pot and the tray. I shan’t want a second cup. Oh! And Lorna, please ask Marianne to come at four thirty. I want to speak with her.’

As soon as she had gone, Georgina finished the tea and set the empty cup on the bedside table. She resumed her letter.

The next night I finished what I had started. I carried the rocks from the rockery into the boat house and piled them over Leonora’s body. It seemed at first that the weight was never going to sink it but at last, with a horrible gurgle, the punt slipped sideways, righted itself again and tipped down at the end near her feet. In an instant she was gone and I breathed a sigh of relief, knowing – or rather imagining – that she would never be seen again . . .

She added a few more lines then signed it, then, on reflection, added a few more.

This confession is written to ease my conscience before God and in the hope that the girls will never have to grow up believing that their mother abandoned them. My son’s daughters deserve better than that – and so that the police will never again believe that my son was responsible in any way for Leonora’s death. I alone am guilty . . .

Marianne went up promptly at half past four and found Georgina sitting up with an envelope in her hand.

‘I want you to replace this in the top right-hand drawer of my desk,’ she told Marianne. ‘It is sealed and addressed to my sister and I trust you not to attempt to open it. It is to do with my will and is of no interest to anyone else. When you have relocked the drawer bring me the key. Then I want you to go round to the doctor and ask him for some more sleeping pills. Tell him I have been taking a tablet each day after lunch so that I could sleep throughout the afternoon.’

‘Two a day? Oh, but . . .’

Georgina held up a hand. ‘It’s none of your business, Marianne, how I take my medicine. The doctor will understand that the days are long and boring and if I’m awake all afternoon I simply fret and that is bad for my health. And bring the tablets straight to me. Ida means well but she has always been interfering and I don’t want her to know. Is that understood?’

‘Yes, Mrs Matlowe.’

‘And when you bring me the pills you can bring me up to date on the twins’ progress. There has been a lot of disruption in the household, which is not good for them, but hopefully that wretched Preston will soon take himself back to America.’ She dabbed at her forehead with a handkerchief. ‘We shall be well rid of him.’

Saturday came and with it a visit from Richard Preston which took them all by surprise. He bought carnations for the invalid and a game of bat and ball for the girls and, while Lorna found a suitable vase for the flowers, he, Ida and Marianne were soon sharing a table on the terrace and were in earnest conversation while Emmie and Edie were given time to play in the garden with their new game.

‘I’m sorry about the way Nan reacted to you, Marianne,’ Richard told her again. ‘It was quite wrong of her, but I do want to try again with her and wonder, if the twins came with me to see her without a chaperone . . .’ He gave a wry grin and left the sentence unfinished. ‘If not, I’m really at a loss to know what to do next. If Mrs Matlowe is refusing to let me take the girls home with me for a few weeks and if Nan is refusing to travel with Marianne – which I’m afraid she is at the moment . . .’ He looked at her apologetically. ‘I don’t know where to turn for advice.’

Ida said, ‘Poor you! It’s a fair old pickle, one way and another.’

Marianne said, ‘I understand she was jealous and I can forgive that, but I can’t imagine the two of us getting along – and then there’s the twins to think about. They’ve never once mentioned their nanny since that day and when I tentatively raised the subject they went very quiet and looked at each other.’

Ida laughed. ‘I know that look! My advice, Richard, for what it’s worth, is to persuade your parents to come over to England to see them here.’

He shook his head. ‘My father is too ill and Mother would never leave him.’

Ida shook her head. ‘Best laid plans . . .’

He nodded. ‘It’s so frustrating.’

Marianne said, ‘Do you really believe that your nanny will survive the long crossing?’

‘I’m not at all sure, but she won’t hear of anything else and I can’t let her down. She thinks she still has a role to play in their lives.’

Ida surprised them. ‘If it were not for my sister I would volunteer to come with the girls – it might be the only way Georgina would agree to let them go – but I can’t leave her with this heart problem.’

‘She may believe,’ Marianne ventured, ‘that she might have a heart attack and die while the twins are away. It might make her more determined than ever to keep them here.’

Ida sent Marianne inside to ask for lemonade and biscuits and when she returned with the tray Ida sprang her next surprise. ‘Maybe it would make more sense, Richard, in view of all the problems we have at the moment, to let the girls go to America when they are a little older. They might appreciate everything more . . . cope with the changes better. They’ve led a very sheltered life here.’ She glanced at Richard. ‘It also might be a good idea to let the dust settle, as they say. Would you consider that?’

He hesitated, thrown by the suggestion.

Ida pressed on. ‘The point is that if my sister is not going to recover her full strength – and it does look a little uncertain – I shall make it a condition that I stay with her only if the twins start to attend a normal school.’ She looked at Marianne. ‘That’s not intended as a criticism of your work with them, but they should be widening their experiences, Marianne, and learning to be around other children.’

There was a startled silence. Marianne’s first thought was that, if the suggestion were taken up by the girls’ grandmother, she herself would be free to accept the job with Donald, but she said nothing.

Ida continued. ‘I don’t mean sending them to boarding school. I mean a very good private school that takes day girls as well as boarders. Cook says there is such a school by the name of Dewsbury Girls’ Preparatory, which is just within walking distance. Of course it depends if they have any vacancies, but we could investigate the idea.’

Before anyone could reply, the telephone in the house rang and Lorna came hurrying out.