The Widow's Confession (31 page)

On the step she found Mr Benedict, his gloves in his hand, dressed more neatly than she had ever seen him; in his black coat and grey waistcoat he looked more like a clerk than an artist. He
raised his hat. She did not open the door any wider, but looked at him warily, allowing all the dislike she felt for him to stain her expression.

‘A word,’ he said. ‘That is all – about the missing girl. I had come back to see Gorsey, to try and make amends – of course he will not see me. I went to the beach
and one of the boatmen told me.’

‘You should have left when you were told to,’ Delphine said. ‘I would not have opened the door, had I known it was you.’ She moved to close it, but he put his foot in the
door: one shining black boot. She wondered who had shone it – some maid in a Ramsgate villa?

‘I am aware of what you think of me,’ he said, ‘but I believe I know who is behind this all. While the others are busy shunning me, you may be able to do something about this.
Please.’

Glancing around, she let him in. As he walked into the parlour, she regretted it; found even the curve of his shoulders, and the glossy length of black hair, repulsive. She did not want him to
breathe the air of her cottage; he ate the oxygen. She stood by the small fireplace, her arms folded.

‘Speak, then,’ she said.

‘I speak to you as a fellow painter,’ he said, but she waved her hand in the air to indicate that he must move on, and quickly. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘The words
were always what troubled me –
MARY
,
and
WHITE
, White as snow –
they were so precisely drawn into the sand, with such
care. I did not know what it was that disturbed me so much about it, only that there was something which kept troubling my mind. It came to me this morning, as clear as the bell at Ramsgate which
announces the arrival of the London newspapers. Whoever did this was
signing their name.
They are an artist, and they were signing their picture. The “white as snow” is merely
a play on that.’

Delphine felt cold. ‘I hardly see how,’ she said. ‘The
Mary White
is the lifeboat; before that it was a ship. Are you saying someone from the crew is
involved?’

‘No,’ said Benedict. ‘That is, I might have thought so – but Bessie Dalton said it was a lady who had done this, and all along these crimes seemed strange –
committed with softness rather than brute force. The
Mary White
is coincidence, that is all. It was this morning when I remembered a conversation I had with Miss Peters some weeks ago. If
you remember, she always said she liked word games. I asked her about her name, Albertine, and said what a fine coincidence it was that it resembled that of the Prince Consort. She laughed in a
very forced way and said that she had been rechristened by the family who had taken her in; renamed entirely, to escape her past – and her parentage.’

‘And much capital you made out of it,’ said Delphine. ‘I know of the offer you made her – that you did it in such a way disgusts me.’

‘What offer?’ he said, and his face was full of astonishment.

‘She said that you wished her to model for you. That you would paint her, and make her the toast of London.’

He shook his head. ‘I may have said something of that sort, in jest. I wrote her a stupid note, once – under the influence of too much claret, mixed with medicine – and told
her she was beautiful and would be fêted if the world ever recognized it. But I never made her an offer.’

Delphine tried to reconcile the certainty of Alba’s words during their discussion in Reculver with the artist’s astonished expression. ‘She is an innocent young woman, with a
strong imagination,’ she said. ‘With your loose tongue it is not surprising that she misunderstood.’

‘Let us return to my point, Mrs Beck,’ said Benedict. ‘I was astonished that she should admit to the adoption, to point out, so cheerfully, her lower status and class, and make
it clear she was not from a respectable background. I had a kind of feeling she was trying to draw my attention, and my pity – and this, combined with her evident effort to attract Mr Hallam
also, gave me a slight suspicion of her. It was that which remained in my memory, and then I remembered this morning how she said: “I was but plain Mary, and I was found here. I used to
pretend I was secretly from a rich local family.”’ He looked at Delphine, then continued urgently: ‘I would warrant she wished her second name was White. It may be that she was an
illegitimate child of the White family, who have built ships here for generations. Either way, that does not matter. What does matter is who she is now. Search your memory, Mrs Beck. She would have
been free to see those girls; she even met one of them. Have you seen her, this morning? I went to the Albion Hotel, and though Gorsey would not speak to me I heard from one of his servants that
she was not at breakfast. It is her we should be looking for.’

Delphine stood there and stared at him. He seemed agitated, and in earnest. But her reticence showed in her face, and she turned away, trying to think clearly, beyond his gaze.

‘We are running out of time,’ he said impatiently, rising to his feet.

‘You can hardly blame me for giving a second thought to such a wild accusation,’ she said.

‘I know what it is,’ he said. ‘After everything with that wretched Polly girl, you think I am not to be trusted; not a single word of mine is to be given any weight.’

‘That wretched girl?’ said Delphine. ‘You may be the father of her child. You trusted her enough to tell her everything you knew of me.’

He flinched. ‘I had drunk too much champagne that night,’ he said. ‘I apologize, unreservedly. My judgement is poor sometimes. I do not wish you to think ill of me.’

‘Too late,’ she said.

‘You should still listen to me,’ he said. ‘Whatever else has passed between us, a child is in danger and Miss Peters is behind it all.’

She doubted almost everything he had said, but she knew she could not take the risk. She nodded at him, then went to the hallway and called for her cousin, tying on her bonnet as she did so.

If I had my way, I would have been gone, never to see my summer companions again. I longed for the rattle of the coach on the road, for the looking-forward to our London
house, for new scenery and sounds, and a way of forgetting. It was the search for Sarah that drew us all together again. And in those last days of summer I see, now, the seeds of the knowledge of
what I wanted. I can confess it now: despite everything, I wanted you.

Delphine, Julia and Benedict found Edmund and Theo at Stone Bay. They had hailed a cart to take them along the coast road, and it was Julia who had spotted their horses
tethered at the gap in the cliffs.

The two men were on the sands, walking fast, calling Sarah’s name disconsolately. There had been no sighting of the girl, no glimpse of the checked blue and white dress she was wearing.
There was no trace of her.

It was Delphine who explained the painter’s thoughts, whilst Mr Benedict waited silently, pale, his hands clasped together, his head lowered in penitence. Julia stood beside him, and
Delphine knew her cousin’s presence added a gravitas to their small group, even in the eyes of Theo, who never met her gaze with his own, only kept it on the horizon, the wide brim of his
straw hat pulled low.

‘There may be something in it,’ said Edmund, when Delphine had finished. ‘Either way, we have no other route of enquiry. And it has a certain terrible logic to it.’ He
plucked at Theo’s sleeve. ‘Theo? What do you think?’

‘I don’t believe it. But I think we must find Miss Albertine,’ said Theo. ‘That will end our suspicions. Meanwhile, you should stay here and carry on looking for Sarah,
in case you are wrong. We should not waste any time. Have you tried at the Albion?’

‘Of course,’ said Delphine, trying to stay calm. ‘We went there to check, before coming to find you. She is not there; we went with one of Mr Gorsey’s servants and he
knocked on the door. Miss Waring was resting in the room, but said that Alba had gone out early and that she hadn’t seen her since. She seemed disorientated, as though she had been
drugged.’

‘You did not trouble Mrs Quillian with all of this?’ Theo demanded, pulling on his riding gloves.

‘Credit me with some sense,’ said Delphine.

‘Very well,’ said Theo. ‘Then I must look for her elsewhere.’

‘You should go to Northdown House first,’ said Julia. Everyone turned and looked at her. She was wearing her veil, close to her face. ‘Do you not remember, Della? When we were
first introduced, Miss Waring said they had visited there, and that Alba loved it. I would try there first.’

Theo nodded to Julia, and the company; he seemed unable to speak and Delphine itched to say to him that he should unstick his tongue and voice his opinions, if he wished. She watched him as he
strode away, his riding whip swinging in one hand.

‘That was well done, Mrs Beck,’ said Benedict. ‘I knew you would make him listen.’

‘God help that child,’ said Delphine. She left them there, the little circle of Benedict, Edmund and Julia, and she followed Theo, gathering her dress in her hands, striding after
him, up through the gap in the cliffs. Behind her she heard Edmund calling for Sarah again, and she blessed him for leading his followers on in a search. Try as she might, she could not keep up
with Theo. He seemed to be moving with a fury, as though he knew he was pursued. Yet he did not look back. He untethered his horse, and it was in this moment that she caught up with him – but
something drew her up, six yards or so before she reached him. She had nothing to say to him, she realized: nothing that could matter in this moment, when they were searching for poor
Martha’s niece, the little girl Delphine had drawn out of the road on some distant Sunday.

She stepped back as he put one foot in the stirrup of his saddle, and drew himself up and on to the horse’s back in one smooth, athletic movement. He, who had always seemed so confined, so
drawn in and contained by his prayer and stillness, was a man of flesh and blood; had limbs with a strange, wiry strength which seemed foreign to her knowledge of him. He drew the horse’s
head round strongly but without savagery; as it turned he turned too and met her eyes for the first time that day.

‘Forgive me,’ he said. Then he rode on.

The horse crossed the road at a trot, Theo looking this way and that, went past the lighthouse and as soon as the horse’s hooves hit farmland he loosened his reins and drove it on with his
heels, his right hand raised so the horse could see the whip in it. A trot, a canter – and then he was galloping, galloping away from her. Straight across the shorn field, the horse’s
chestnut flanks glistening in the pale light of the dying summer.

As he rode, the thunder of hooves in his ears, the land passing by in a blur, Theo tried to focus on the task in hand and not allow his mind to dwell on Delphine. It would be
in such a moment, he knew, that he would let his horse catch its foot in a rabbit-hole; be caught unawares when it was spooked by something . . . and then he would take a fall, and hit his head,
and end his life. Because of a lack of discipline; because he did not trust his Lord.

He rode partly across the farmland, partly along the road, and when he came to Northdown House and turned down its long drive, bordered by dense foliage, he noted that the house seemed unkempt.
It was often rented out, he knew, and he was aware that the family Albertine had visited had left suddenly a few weeks before, so might still be paying for the place, but without interest in its
upkeep. He rode into the courtyard; no one appeared from the stables to take his horse.

‘Hello?’ he called, and the words reverberated around the courtyard. He dismounted, led his horse to the wall and tethered it. He then went to the front door and, polite as always,
pulled the bell. He heard it jangling in the depths of the house; no one came. Something drew him on; the certainty that she was in there somewhere crept over him. He pushed the front door, and it
opened.

The entrance hall was clean, but empty of furniture. There was a picture or two on the walls, but the place seemed uninhabited, and there was an oval on the wall where the papers were more
intensely coloured, as though a painting or mirror had been removed. ‘Hello?’ he called again; went to the first door, and opened it.

The room was swathed in dust sheets, apart from two chairs, covered in striped silk. Theo froze in the doorway, his hand still on the doorknob. Alba had clearly been sitting in one of the
chairs; she had risen to her feet at the sight of him.

‘Mr Hallam?’ she said. She seemed surprised, but not afraid. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Looking for you,’ he said. When he saw joy dawn on her face, he knew he had been misunderstood. ‘Another child is missing,’ he said, then stopped. How was he to tell her
that she was suspected of taking her?

‘I am just visiting Mrs Appleton, the housekeeper,’ said Alba. ‘The gardener brought me here in his cart. She is in the kitchen, making tea. She is a little deaf, I’m
afraid, and will be surprised to see you. I like to look in on her while the family is away. I did tell my aunt – is she worried? Mr Hallam – are you well? You look pale.’

‘I am perfectly well,’ he said.

Edmund was still calling for Sarah, trailed by Delphine, Julia and Benedict, when they saw a figure appear from the direction of Main Bay. In a few moments they picked out the
shape of Dr Crisp, and saw that he was waving his arms.

‘They’ve found her,’ he said, when he eventually reached them. He had taken his jacket off, and his shirt was soaked through with sweat, his neckcloth undone at his throat.
‘She is safe and well. After everything that has happened, I almost believed . . .’ His expression cracked with the strain, fear breaking through.

Edmund went to him and patted him hard on the shoulder. ‘She is safe?’ he asked.

The doctor nodded. ‘Yes.’ He looked at Edmund, narrowing his eyes in the sun. ‘I am so relieved. I was shying at shadows when I was searching, so terrified was I that I would
find her, and not . . .’ He seemed to suddenly become aware of the ladies present. His eyes met Edmund’s again, and they settled on the word between them:
alive.