The Silence (20 page)

The almshouses were low, stone-built houses, with mullioned windows, and neatly tended gardens. There was a square tablet, inset into the centre house, saying the properties had been built and endowed by Mr Simeon Acton in 1852, for the shelter, succour and sustenance of the old or the frail.’

‘See if you can get a close-up of that as well,’ said Nell, indicating the tablet. ‘It’s a bit of a link to Stilter House. Don’t go too near though – people live in there, remember.’

Beth hopped onto a fence, took several shots, and reported moderate success. ‘It might be a bit smudgy, but it’s pretty good.’

‘Well done. I think we’ll head back to The Pheasant, shall we? We said we’d meet Michael at four and it’s nearly three already.’

They were retracing their steps, when Beth said, ‘Will we have time to go back to Stilter House?’

The question took Nell off balance, but she said, ‘If we have to we can, but I packed everything up this morning, and it’s all in our room at The Pheasant. There’s no need to go back.’

‘It’s just that I’d sort of like to take – well, borrow – some of the music, if that would be all right,’ said Beth. She was not looking at Nell.

Nell said, ‘Esmond’s music?’ and Beth look up, startled. ‘It’s all right, Bethie. I know about Esmond. At least, I know as much as anyone knows about him.’

‘I thought you mightn’t like it, on account of him coming into the house when we didn’t know him,’ said Beth, clearly relieved. ‘I don’t s’pose I ought to have let him come in, but he was really pleased to be there, and he was extra pleased to play the piano. He didn’t say anything, but I thought p’raps there isn’t a piano where he lives.’

It’s all right, thought Nell. She thinks he was a local child who wandered in. She didn’t think there was anything unreal about him – any more than her father thought it all those years ago. She did not examine the logic of this against her own beliefs and disbeliefs, but listened to Beth, who was still talking about Esmond.

‘He’s a really good pianist,’ Beth was saying. ‘So I thought if I had some of his music, I might practice it and get as good. The aunts wouldn’t mind if I took a few bits of it, would they? I mean those aunts whose house it is?’

‘I’ll tell them about it,’ said Nell, ‘but I shouldn’t think they’d mind in the least. In fact they mentioned you having one or two keepsakes from the house, so I’m sure a few sheets of music would be fine.’ She hesitated, then said, ‘You wouldn’t mind going out there? After last evening?’

‘I wouldn’t want to go back at
night
,’ said Beth, earnestly. ‘But everywhere’s sunshiney now and the house will be all sparkly, so it’d be pretty OK. And that policeman—’

‘Sergeant Howe?’

‘He said he’d be there this afternoon,’ said Beth. ‘So he’d chase away any muddly people, wouldn’t he?’

‘Yes, he would. I’d forgotten he was going to be there.’ Nell thought there was no reason not to make one quick final visit to Stilter House, and it might even be good for Beth to see it by daylight; to see it as an ordinary, unthreatening house, and take away with her a happy, normal memory of the place her father had loved.

‘Plus,’ said Beth, avoiding Nell’s eyes again, ‘you know that photo of Dad at the piano? The one I told you about?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I wondered if I could have a photo of me at the piano like that. Then I could have both photos in a frame. It’d be me and Dad at the same piano, when we were both nine. I’d really like that. Dad would like it, as well, wouldn’t he?’

‘Oh Beth,’ said Nell, suddenly having to fight back tears. ‘Of course he would. It’s a terrific idea. Let’s do it right away. We’ll get the car from the pub and whizz out there at once, and we’ll pick out some of the music and I’ll get some shots of you at the piano. We can easily be back to meet Michael at four.’

T
he Pheasant’s attics were lit by a single, unshaded electric light bulb hanging from the rafters, but even in its glare the attics had a mysterious atmosphere. As Michael stepped through the narrow door he had the feeling of being invisibly beckoned to come deeper into this quiet storehouse of the past; invited to pick, uninterrupted, through the squirrelled-away flotsam and jetsam of ordinary everyday life. Was this how Nell felt when she foraged through attics? He would ask her later, and she would probably grin and say what she usually felt in attics was irritation at the sheer untidiness, because people just dumped their cast-offs anywhere and closed the door, so you got a hotchpotch of ill-assorted junk. Then Michael would tell her she was being unromantic again and quote that line (was it Shelley or Keats?) about the past being like an inspired rhapsodist filling the future with harmony. Upon which Nell would most likely laugh and say trust him to dredge up the metaphysical poets at any opportunity.

But there appeared to be a fair degree of tidiness in The Pheasant’s attics. In fact it almost looked as if the cast-offs had been arranged in order like the earth’s strata or Neapolitan ice-cream, although this was probably because everything brought up here had simply been heaped on top of the last layer. How deep into these layers was Isobel Acton, the temptress poisoner? Was she even here?

Michael began to move the miscellany of items, trying to identify the different eras as he did so. Working his way through the broken bits of furniture and abandoned curtains and three-legged dining chairs, he wondered if there was a scene for Wilberforce to be gleaned from this. Perhaps Wilberforce, during his visit to Great Aunt Tabitha, would investigate the attics of her house for some reason – that would allow for a lively illustration of him in a nightcap, tiptoeing furrily and furtively up the stairs, carrying an old-fashioned candle.

He cleared away the most recent layer – the topsoil – which was mostly of out-of-date kitchen appliances and vinyl discs from the fifties, along with some sixties remnants including purple and green linoleum flowers from the flower power days. Beneath that lay memorabilia of WWII – black and white photographs of young men standing next to Spitfires, a tea-chest containing an old RAF uniform, and framed photographs of a Caudle street party commemorating VE-Day.

He stacked all this in one corner, and embarked on an older group of items, piled neatly against one wall, seeing with a beat of excitement that he was approaching the era he was looking for. Here were fragments from the Great War: sepia photographs of clear-eyed boys, heartbreakingly young. I’m getting closer, thought Michael. But I haven’t reached Isobel yet. Would she be here? Had Joe Poulson’s great-great-whoever really left notes of her trial?

But Joe Poulson’s ancestor had. Michael found the notes in an enamelled box beneath dusty folds of a chenille table-cover and a set of cast-metal figurines depicting the Muses. The box had protected the notes from the worst of time’s ravages – also from the mice that certainly raided the attic from time to time.

The top sheet was headed,
Trial of Isobel Acton
,
and the writing was careful and clear. Michael glanced at his watch, saw that he had almost two hours before meeting Nell and Beth, and sat down on an old horsehair sofa to read.

Monday lst July

The Pheasant

I am George Poulson, residing at The Pheasant Public House in Caudle Moor, which my father is landlord of, and I am foreman of the jury for the trial of Mrs Isobel Acton, which duty I take seriously and according to the Queen.

All of us were given these books to make notes during the trial. I would like to state I shall be helping two jurymen in that, since they can’t barely read, never mind write, not having had the benefit of much education, although both good honest men as will pronounce sentence according to their true beliefs, and not be swayed by any trumpery buying of drinks in the public bar, nor fluttering of eyelids from fancy ladies pretending to be sorrow-struck.

We took the Oath, speaking out very solemn and correct, although the judge had to rebuke Nehemiah Goodbody afterwards for saying he could not hear and asking folk to speak up and not mumble. My young lady, Miss Eliza Stump that is, was asked to remove her bonnet or take a seat in the benches against the wall, on account of folk not being able to see over the feathered trimmings, which was a pity for she had bought the bonnet special for the trial and is a young lady as likes to look her best, not to mention her position as housekeeper at Acton House making her an object of folks’ interest.

The indictment was read by a man who was called the clerk of the court, and very impressive it was. I copy it here.

‘The Crown, for our lady, the Queen, by the Grace of God, presents and charges that the defendant, Isobel Mary Acton,
née
Susskind, did kill and murder her husband, Simeon John Acton at their house, Acton House, Caudle Moor, in the county of Derbyshire.’

(The dates and times were included, but I couldn’t write fast enough for those, and also Albert Coppin, who was sitting next to me, sneezed, so I missed some of the details).

Mrs Acton stood in the dock. (It wasn’t a dock like in a proper court: it was some of the rostra from the room where the Ancient Order of Buffalos meet the first Thursday of the month, and Davy Higgins, the joiner, had hammered together some oak staves as an enclosure. They’d put the Queen’s photograph on the wall behind it, to remind everyone of the solemnity).

I’m not a great one for describing ladies’ garments, but Miss Stump said afterwards that Mrs Acton was wearing a black watered silk gown, and that while black was perfectly proper for the occasion, not to mention her being a widow, watered silk was a bit showy if one was standing trial for murder. Also, said Eliza, she had heard as how Mrs Acton had dabbed rice powder on her face (which was quite proper, and something many ladies did nowadays), but had also reddened her lips. She had it from the policewoman who was guarding her, said Eliza, and she knew it would be true, for Mrs Acton had an array of powders and creams on her bedroom table, and often wore powder and even, on occasions, rouge.

As a matter of fact, it wouldn’t have mattered if Isobel Acton had painted her face with blue and crimson like a heathen, for she wore a veil over her face most days, and none of us could see her expression at all.

The gentleman who spoke against Mrs Acton – prosecutor they told us he was styled – next called Mrs Burlap.

She told what she had seen the afternoon Mr Simeon Acton died, and you could see that everyone listening found it shocking and terrible. The judge wrote things down in his book, although he didn’t seem to find it particularly shocking, and I dare say he’s used to hearing suchlike as murder every day. But Caudle Moor is a law-abiding place, and we all found it dreadful.

Mrs Acton did not seem shocked. Nehemiah Goodbody said afterwards she hadn’t even listened to it, and was as proud and haughty as if she believed the devil had her in his care. But Nehemiah believes the devil has a lot of folk in his care, and he talks about Lucifer as familiarly as if he had his dinner in hell’s fiery caverns every Saturday, so nobody paid him much heed.

Asked had she tried to help Mr Acton, Mrs Burlap said indeed she had, as any Christian soul would. She had gone along to the scullery and mixed a draught of mustard and water, and she and Mrs Acton had tried to get the poor man to drink it down.

The man who spoke for Mrs Acton – defence, they call him – pounced on this.

‘So Mrs Acton tried to revive him?’ he said.

‘You might think so,’ said Mrs Burlap glaring. She’s a holy terror, Mrs Burlap, and terrorizes her young son, Samuel, into an unnatural obedience, and the general opinion is that it’s no wonder Jack Burlap looks for his comfort in other places than his own cottage.

‘But the jury will see that as the action of a loving wife anxious to save her husband’s life, rather than a cold-blooded killer,’ said the defence, and sat down, smirking at the prosecutor as if thought he had scored a point. From the back of the courtroom came Nehemiah Goodbody’s muttered voice, saying something about folk who darkeneth counsel by words without knowledge, and for a moment we thought the judge was going to order Nehemiah to be removed, but the prosecutor intervened asking Mrs Burlap to continue her story and the moment passed.

Mrs Burlap was clearly not going to be put down by smart young men from London, or judges in wigs. She said loudly, ‘It might look as if Isobel Acton wanted to revive her husband, but it’s my opinion she’d planned all along to be rid of him, and—’

‘Thank you, Mrs – Mrs Burlap,’ said the judge, ‘but we are not able to take your opinion as evidence. Please do not sniff at me like that, unless you are suffering from a head cold.’

‘Did you,’ asked the prosecutor hastily, ‘actually see Mrs Acton administer any kind of liquid – anything at all – to her husband?’

‘No, I did not, but—’

‘Thank you, Mrs Burlap.’

Dr Brodworthy next told how he was called to Acton House and how Mr Simeon Acton was already on the brink of death. He had tried to get him to drink something to make him sick or have a purging.

‘That’d be to rid Mr Acton’s body of any poison?’ asked the prosecuting gentleman, all polite like, and Dr Brodworthy agreed, and told what had been in the stuff, although I never heard of any of it and neither had anyone else, and none of us knew how to spell the words anyway. But the judge wrote it down, and Dr Brodworthy said it was powerful effective if taken soon enough.

‘But on this occasion it was not effective at all?’

‘No, for the poison was too long in the system, and already working its ills,’ said Dr Brodworthy. ‘Organ failure had already begun.’

Here, the doctor became very medical in his explanation, and I dare say not more than two people listening really understood the exact details, but his meaning was clear enough to us all. Mr Simeon Acton, good and kindly soul, had been given poison and it had killed him.

The last person to be called on was my young lady, Miss Eliza Stump. There seemed to be some question as to whether she ought to have been let to sit on the benches to hear what had gone beforehand, but somebody pointed out that The Pheasant did not have enough space for folks to sit anywhere else, and they wrangled for a bit and most of us got bored, but in the end, Eliza was let to tell her story.