Frozen Charlotte

FIFTEEN

Simon rang again first thing Tuesday morning making it the second morning she had been awakened by the telephone. At this rate she wouldn’t even need an alarm clock, she thought, stretching out a hand for the receiver.

‘I’ve rung to apologize, Martha,’ he said, speaking in a short, abrupt manner. ‘I feel such a fool. I should have remembered that whisky makes me maudlin. It really wasn’t a good idea to dump it all on you. I was in my cups last night and have the headache this morning to prove it. Again – I apologize -’ he laughed – ‘most humbly. You’re going to think I’m an idiot,’ he continued, ‘or worse a prat, but I sort of needed to do something stupid. I feel much better for it this morning. And,’ he said grandly, ‘to prove how very sorry I am for dumping all that on your lovely shoulders I want to take you out for dinner.’ He paused for a second. ‘If we’re still friends, that is.’

‘Of course,’ she said, smiling at his penitent humility – not his usual attitude. ‘Although neither the apology nor the dinner is necessary. I consider it a compliment that you chose to speak to me.’ She smiled to herself. ‘Even if you were pissed. It’s a mark of true friendship, Simon. Anyone is willing to share happiness but it’s true friends who confide in you in their hour of adversity and expose their vulnerability as you did. Besides – I really owe you a dinner.’

‘How so?’

‘You’ve given me insight into one of my current cases.’

‘Which one?’

‘I can’t tell you, Simon. It’ll probably all come out in the end and then I promise I will explain all.’ She hesitated. ‘I’m sorry to be so mysterious but I’m a bit tied up at the moment so can we hang back on the dinner until this case has come to court? Then I can really look forward to the evening.’

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘You’ll ring me?’

‘I will, Simon,’ she said. ‘I promise.’

‘Until then, Martha.’

As she put the phone down she reflected on Simon Pendlebury and his mysterious past, both recent and distant. He had been at university with Martin and they had been unlikely friends. Different both in personality and in their looks. Simon had been the good looking one while Martin… well, Martin had had the personality. Simon had initially been shy but had grown into a tall, handsome man who had married the gentlest of women, Evelyn. Martha had known Evelyn Pendlebury for almost as long as Simon and she had never heard her say an unkind or unpleasant word about anybody. Which could have made her appear bland, insincere, shallow even, when she was anything but. Evelyn had explained her lack of malice in typical humble and honest fashion. She had said to Martha that she simply ‘didn’t bother’ with anyone about whom she would want to say anything unpleasant. ‘I select my friends very, very carefully,’ she had said.

So how come Evelyn had married Simon? Simon who had clawed his way up – somehow – from an emotionally and physically deprived background, left behind his scarred working-class roots via a scholarship – but to all that wealth? Huge house, cars, housekeeper, swimming pool, daughters educated at one of the top ‘ladies’ establishments, and was now talking about buying a black-and-white, Grade I listed house attached to something like a thousand acres. Worth millions. Where did all the money come from? Where had all the money come from?

It was something she and Martin had puzzled over for years. Nothing legal had been their final conclusion but what made this unlikely was Evelyn’s personality. Martha could not imagine her friend being married to a man who was less than honest. And Evelyn was too bright to turn a blind eye to an unpleasant truth. So she and Martin had argued the point round and round, never coming to a sensible conclusion until they had dropped the subject completely but unsatisfactorily.

Evelyn’s death from ‘the silent killer’, ovarian cancer, the year before had been a tragedy for all who had known her.

Martha lay back against her pillows, her mind racing, firstly thinking about Simon and Evelyn but then progressing to this strange case. Her thought processes were slow at first but as she became more awake they speeded up.

Sukey was the next person to intrude into her bedroom, in pink pyjamas, dressing gown and fluffy slippers, carefully carrying a mug of coffee which she handed to her mother. ‘Morning, Mum,’ she said, climbing onto the bed.

Martha took the coffee from her, inhaling the scent. It was fresh coffee. ‘Is this a thank you for allowing you to go to acting school?’

Sukey nodded, unabashed that her strategy had been penetrated. ‘I’m so excited, Mum,’ she confided, giving her a hug, almost splashing coffee on the starched white duvet cover. She opened her blue eyes wide. ‘I’ve just got this feeling that I’m born to be very, very lucky.’

Martha could have warned her enthusiastic daughter that a career in acting was at best precarious, quoted the mantra that many were called but few chosen and told her that even successful actresses had periods of inactivity. She might have added that they had no contacts in the media world, no famous relations who might be able to ease Sukey’s way into a role or two. But she had gone along a similar path with Sam, warning him about choosing football as a career. And look where he was now. The Liverpool Academy. With her twin brother so successful it was no wonder that Sukey was aiming high, convinced she would share his good fortune. Martha wondered if Sam would secure the Stoke deal and superstitiously crossed her fingers. Her twins, she was fast realizing, were a very unusual and unique pair. It made it more of a shame that their father could not witness their successes and perhaps be there to comfort them through their downfalls. But if Sam could play in a Premier League team why should not Sukey star in a soap or a film or go on the stage, whatever Noël Coward warned Mrs Worthington. Martha put her arm round her daughter, breathed in the soapy, lemony smell of her hair, drank her coffee and tried to find the right words to say, not to discourage but to encourage without raising false hopes.

In the end she kissed the top of her daughter’s head. ‘Go for it, Suks,’ she said. ‘Life’s too short to sit back, suddenly arrive at middle age and wonder what would have happened if you had followed your dream.’

Sukey flicked her long blonde hair behind her shoulders and looked into her mother’s face, frowning. ‘What parts do you think I could play, Mum?’ She was already sounding self-absorbed.

‘Just about anything.’

Sukey’s frown deepened. ‘I wanted you to say something more specific,’ she said grumpily. ‘Not soft soap me.’

‘What would you like to play? Classical stuff? Jane Austen?’

Sukey made a face. ‘I wouldn’t want to be one of those simpering wretches like in Pride and Prejudice ,’ she said. ‘I’d want to be someone more like Vesper Lynd in Casino Royale .’ Her chin was jutting out.

‘Wouldn’t we all,’ Martha muttered. ‘Come on, Suks, climb off your cloud. Time to get up and go to work and school.’

Martha felt very happy that morning. Tuesday had started well, with the brief chat with her daughter and the telephone call from Simon Pendlebury which had been so pleasant and friendly. As she showered, she reflected that she had neither liked nor trusted him while Evelyn had been alive but since she’d died they had become friends. She smiled to herself and dressed in a black Betty Jackson suit worn over a pink silk blouse. One of the downsides to her job was that dealing so much with death on a day-to-day basis she was almost always forced to wear, if only for decency’s sake, sober colours. Most days she had face-to-face meetings with grieving relatives. But she felt she could risk a pink blouse today. She wore high-heeled patent shoes for a small touch of glamour.

To her surprise when she reached her office Jericho Palfreyman opened the door to her, his eyes bright with inquisitiveness. ‘Morning,’ he said, looking pleased with himself. ‘Detective Inspector Randall’s already here to see you, ma’am. I let him into your office.’

She hung up her coat. The weather was still freezing, especially in the early morning; she’d had to scrape the ice off the car which had delayed her by five minutes. But it was still only ten to nine. ‘It’s a bit early for a visit from him, isn’t it?’

‘It is.’ His words were heavy with meaning. He was dying for her to ask why DI Randall had called in so early.

She gave in. ‘Do you know what it’s about, Jericho? Did he say?’

‘No, ma’am, but he looks…’ Jericho fished around in his head for an appropriate word. ‘Restless. I think he’s worried about something.’

‘Right.’ She pushed the door open. Alex was silhouetted against the window, staring out at the snowscape. He turned round as she entered. ‘Alex,’ she greeted him warmly. ‘It’s nice to see you.’

‘I had to come, Martha.’

Jericho was right, she thought. Alex Randall was positively agitated.

‘Sit down,’ she invited.

He folded his long, spare frame into the armchair and leaned forward, his hands on his knees. ‘I’m going round and round in circles,’ he confessed. ‘Going mad and not getting anywhere very satisfactory which is why I’ve come here to talk to you.’ He smiled. ‘The voice of reason.’

She sat down too, not behind her desk but in the chair to his side. ‘You think I can help?’

‘I damn well hope so.’

She leaned back. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Shoot.’

‘I need a clue, Martha. A direction. Something – anything to give me a focus.’

She thought for a minute then spoke slowly. ‘This probably hasn’t got anything to do with it,’ she said, ‘but a friend of mine rang me late last night.’

Randall looked at her, patently wondering where this was leading.

‘He mentioned a friend of his who’d had a termination. A medical abortion,’ she explained.

Randall stared at her as though he thought she was stark staring mad. ‘That was not exactly what I’d expected.’

She met his eyes and he gave his head a faint shake. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I can’t see what that can possibly have to do with this case.’ His eyes were on her face as though he was searching for something. ‘I simply can’t see it, Martha,’ he said finally. ‘We’re talking about a baby here, not an abortion.’

‘I know that,’ she said stiffly. Then she smiled. ‘Stick with me, Alex,’ she said. ‘Be patient. Initially I wondered about Alice’s daughter, Rosie, if she had got pregnant. Could the baby possibly be hers? Then I decided no. If she had had an unwanted pregnancy she would have had a legal termination. Not gone to full term and then hidden the baby’s body. Rosie Sedgewick is simply too bright,’ she said. ‘And besides, from what you’ve told me she’s also too strong a personality. She doesn’t fit the profile I’ve built up of the child’s mother.’ She smiled at him mischievously. ‘I’m not being very helpful, am I?’

Randall waited, hoping she was about to say something a little more illuminating.

Martha knew she needed to reassure him. ‘All this, I feel, does have some bearing on the case.’

Alex thought but he still couldn’t see it. ‘Any other thoughts?’

‘I was planning to interview Mrs Palk,’ Martha said.

‘Whatever for?’ Randall was bemused.

‘Because she was the one who found Alice Sedgewick’s body. She had a key to number 41,’ she reminded him.

‘And?’ He felt a little more interested now. His pulse quickened as Martha leaned forward. He caught a waft of a very light, spicy, clean perfume and wondered what it was. He diverted his attention from her perfume to the light which gleamed in her long green eyes. ‘Even so,’ he said steadily, ‘Why would you want to speak to Acantha Palk?’

‘Because I have some questions for her.’

Alex stretched out his long legs and spoke in a casual tone. ‘You wouldn’t care to tell me what these questions are?’

Like a spring, Martha thought, he was uncoiling. ‘Not at the moment, Alex,’ she said. ‘If I get any answers then I’ll tell you.’ She touched his hand and looked straight into his face. ‘I promise.’

She paused for a moment then looked away. ‘Tell me a bit more about the Godfreys,’ she said, catching him completely unawares.

‘I’d almost forgotten about them,’ he admitted. ‘They’re surely right out of the picture?’

‘You think?’

Alex looked at her suspiciously but Martha Gunn, Shropshire coroner, had never looked more innocent. ‘Sometimes,’ he said, ‘I can’t follow your line of reasoning.’

She gave him a cheeky grin. ‘That’s what makes you come here for help and discussion,’ she said.

He narrowed his eyes, half closing them in thought. ‘I might just be curious about your methods one of these days, Martha,’ he said. Then he added quite unexpectedly, ‘Who is this friend, anyway, the one who was talking about an abortion?’

Annoyingly she felt herself blush. ‘Just a friend,’ she said shortly. If Detective Inspector Alex Randall could keep his private life private then so could she. They might have known each other for a good few years but they had never quite crossed the boundary from colleague to friend, however narrow it had sometimes become. Maybe they never would. Alex Randall was a very private person. Not open about his personal life at all. She knew little about him other than that he was married though he had never talked directly about Mrs Randall. Children? She didn’t know that either. Where did he live? Something else to add to the list of ‘things she didn’t know about Alex’. He was, in fact, a complete enigma. A mystery.

She looked up to see him watching her and returned to safer ground. ‘There is another thing, Alex,’ she said. ‘Did you say one of your WPCs interviewed the Isaac family who, if I remember rightly, lived in Number 41 before the Godfreys?’

‘Well – Mrs Isaac did. She’s dead now. WPC Shaw visited her son and daughter-in-law.’ Again he was both surprised and puzzled at the direction her questions were moving in.

‘Did she feel there was something – well – suspicious there?’

Alex shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘Not exactly.’

‘So, what?’

‘WPC Shaw felt they didn’t like her probing into their finances. It was just an impression that they were reluctant and less happy to focus on that topic. Apparently they appear to be worth a packet, those two. And…’ In spite of himself Alex Randall smiled. ‘Personally I think WPC Shaw simply took against the fact that Mr Isaac is an undertaker. As was his father before him.’

‘Really?’ Martha said briskly. ‘Well, Alex.’ She stood up, squared up a sheaf of papers on her desk. ‘Time for us both to get on. I’m sure you’ve plenty to do.’

He looked at her and caught the faintest touch of a smile. ‘Thank you for your time, Martha,’ he said, ‘though what help you’ve been I’m not quite sure.’

‘And thank you for yours, Alex.’ She paused and couldn’t suppress a wide grin. ‘I haven’t helped you at all, have I?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Or more truthfully perhaps I’m not quite sure. But thanks anyway.’ He turned to go but before he moved his guard was down. She read something in the drop of his face, some glimpse of a deep sludge of sadness that must permeate throughout his entire life. She almost – almost – stretched out her hand and asked him what it was, how she could help, why he needed to suffer like this and keep it to himself. But as clearly as she read the emotion she read too the Keep Out sign planted firmly in front of it and knew instinctively that now was not the right time. She must draw back and wait. He would not welcome her crossing this invisible but tangible line drawn in the sand. In fact she could never cross this boundary without a clear and unambiguous invitation. So she held out her hand. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help.’ She paused. ‘I hope, however, that I have planted some seeds and that they bear fruit.’ She gave him a warm smile. ‘Goodbye, Alex,’

‘Goodbye.’ He held her eyes for a split second too long – long enough for her to read even more clearly this truly terrible pain that he locked inside himself. She watched him go with a feeling of frustration.

When she had heard his footsteps patter down the stairs, she wandered outside her room to speak to Jericho. He was someone who knew everything and everyone. A great source of information – even if he did get his facts muddled up on some occasions and embellish the truth on others. He was also an incredible gossip and had antennae which picked up on any whiff of scandal as tall as a mobile phone mast. But he was also very intuitive and would know why she was being so curious so she must be careful how she posed her questions. ‘Tell me, Jericho,’ she said casually, ‘What do you make of Detective Inspector Randall?’

Her assistant pursed his lips. ‘Don’t rightly know,’ he said.

‘Does he live in Shrewsbury?’

‘Don’t know that neither. I’ve never seen him around the town.’

‘No.’ She frowned. This was not proving informative at all. ‘He is,’ she commented, ‘an enigma.’

‘He is that,’ Jericho agreed.

‘Is he married, do you know?’

Her assistant shrugged. ‘Don’t know that neither, Mrs Gunn.’ He was unsuspicious – so far. Best retreat before his curiosity went into overdrive.

‘Now then, what sandwiches will you be wanting for lunch?’

‘Oh, Jericho,’ she said laughing. ‘Do you ever think of anything but food?’

He considered the question literally, as was his way, his face impassive. ‘As your assistant, ma’am,’ he said severely, ‘I have to consider your wellbeing at all times. Part of that duty is to make sure you have proper meals at decent intervals.’

She smiled at him. ‘Well, at least Dr Sullivan seems very happy and contented these days.’

‘I’ve heard two things there,’ Jericho said, his eyes bright with the gossip.

And in spite of herself Martha didn’t stop him.

‘Divorce and Alcoholics Anonymous,’ Jericho announced, touching the side of his nose significantly. ‘Transformed him, so I’ve heard.’

‘He does look and appear better,’ Martha said cautiously. ‘But divorce and AA? Where on earth do you get all your titbits from?’

‘Here and there,’ Jericho said, deliberately mysterious.

It was time to end this conversation and get on with some real work. ‘Can you get me Mrs Acantha Palk on the telephone, please, Jericho,’ she said. ‘She’s a solicitor connected to the Sedgewick case. Also a friend of the dead woman.’

It didn’t take Jericho long to track her down. He was practised at his work of Coroner’s Officer. Less than four minutes later Martha found herself addressing the deep and formidable voice of Mrs Acantha Palk.

‘What can I do for you, coroner?’ Clearly Mrs Palk was in polite mode. Coroners and solicitors do not always have the happiest of relationships.

‘I wonder if you would mind dropping by my office some time,’ Martha said casually. ‘As you can probably guess it’s connected with the death of your…’ She hesitated. ‘Friend and client, Mrs Alice Sedgewick.’

‘Can you tell me why?’ Acantha Palk’s voice was guarded.

‘I’d rather speak to you face-to-face, if you wouldn’t mind.’ Martha waited a second or two before adding, ‘At three o’clock, this afternoon?’

Acantha Palk must know she did not really have much choice. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ she said, notes of resentment and resignation making her voice sound sulky. ‘At your office?’

‘Yes, please,’ Martha said.

Alex, in the meantime, was chewing over Martha’s words. For all they seemed to him to be leading him round and round the mulberry bush, or worse, in the wrong direction, he had watched her arrive at correct solutions too many times to dismiss her thoughts out of hand. To that end he caught up with WPC Delia Shaw in the corridor. ‘Have you got a minute?’

‘Yes, sir.’ She followed him into his office.

‘Shut the door, would you?’ She did as he asked and faced him, her eyes questioning.

Alex dived in. ‘The coroner, Mrs Gunn, has suggested that the Isaacs have some criminal activity to hide. Did you get that impression?’

Slowly Delia Shaw nodded. ‘I did, sir.’

Randall frowned. ‘But in what connection?’

‘I don’t think it’s anything to do with the case, sir,’ she said. ‘They seemed perfectly at ease when I questioned them about the house, the baby, that sort of stuff. No…’ She thought for a minute, recalling the exchange of tense glances as she had looked round the elderly Mrs Isaac’s converted ‘sickroom’. ‘It was more when I asked them about old Mrs Isaac, sir. And her money. I just got the feeling that there was something there, something they didn’t want me to probe into. It was just an impression, sir,’ she added quickly, ‘but having been quite happy for me to visit them and question them about the dead child, they were very relieved to see me go.’

‘Sometimes,’ Alex said grimly, ‘impressions direct us towards the facts. Unfortunately sometimes it isn’t logic but instinct which solves cases, Shaw. And then we have to search for hard evidence which will stand up in court to support our thesis.’ He smiled at her. ‘Thank you. Was there anything else that struck you?’

‘No, sir.’

‘OK, you can go.’ He paused for a minute then added, just as she reached the door, ‘Have you thought any more about going into plain clothes?’

Her eyes lit up. ‘I’d love to, sir,’ she said.

Alex sat in his office and pondered the WPC’s observations of the Isaac family. He would be happy to ask the Birmingham police to investigate them, but he couldn’t see how whatever they found would help solve his case. He eyed the phone, tempted to pick it up and dial the coroner’s office. He wondered whether Martha had made contact with Acantha Palk yet.

She had.

In fact at that very moment Martha Gunn was sitting right opposite her.

She had had a shock when Jericho had ushered the solicitor in. So tall, deep voiced, such an overbearing presence.

‘Mrs Palk,’ she said. ‘Thank you for coming. Do sit down.’

Acantha Palk looked enquiringly at her. ‘Mrs Gunn,’ she said formally, making no attempt to keep the irritation out of her voice.

Martha put her chin on her hand and stared straight at the solicitor. ‘What did you do with the note?’ she asked politely.

As Martha had expected Acantha Palk looked affronted. ‘What note?’ she asked angrily. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

Martha didn’t explain. She simply kept her eyes on Acantha Palk’s large frame and repeated her question in exactly the same tone. ‘What have you done with the note?’

Acantha Palk glared at her and pressed her lips together. ‘You’ve been told that there wasn’t one,’ she said eventually.

‘I know what I’ve been told.’

The two women faced each other. It was a battle of character.

‘You were first on the scene,’ Martha said, ‘and Alice Sedgewick was your friend. You might think you are protecting her reputation. Again, I ask you. Where is the note? What have you done with it?’ She held on to the woman’s gaze. ‘I do hope you haven’t destroyed it.’ She waited. But Acantha Palk was a tough nut to crack. She simply stared back, her face displaying little emotion except anger.

‘OK,’ Martha said slowly. ‘Let me ask you another question. Did you ring your friend, Alice, the night before she killed herself?’

Acantha Palk leaned forward and barked at her, ‘I assume you have access to police records?’

Martha dipped her head.

‘Then you will know that I did ring Alice. Aaron had asked me to keep an eye on her while he was away. He was worried about her.’ Her dark eyes met Martha’s fearlessly as she continued. ‘However unless that telephone was bugged you have absolutely no idea what I said to Alice.’

‘That’s true,’ Martha agreed, not dropping her eyes, ‘though I can guess. You told her about the bones being found in Bayston Hill, didn’t you?’

Acantha Palk pressed her lips together tighter and looked furious, finally spitting out, ‘Pure conjecture.’

Martha continued calmly, ‘Unless you have something even more sinister to hide, Mrs Palk, than suppressing evidence I suggest that you…’ She rolled her eyes theatrically towards the ceiling. ‘What is that lovely and appropriate Americanism? Ah yes. “Come clean” with me.’ She was finding it hard to conceal her enjoyment at this small drama.

Mrs Palk interlocked her fingers. ‘Coroner,’ she said, ‘I am a solicitor. This is a serious allegation. I know-’

Martha interrupted impatiently. ‘Yes, yes, your rights. We all have rights. Alice wrote that note to speak for her after her death. That is her right. It is what she wanted to be heard. As coroner I have the right to know why that poor woman killed herself. The baby sparked something off, didn’t it?’

Acantha Palk was hardly breathing as she absorbed Martha’s words. ‘It was explained in the note, wasn’t it? You were supposed to be her very best friend, Mrs Palk. Practically the only friend she had.’ She fixed her gaze on the woman. ‘That was why she addressed the note to you, wasn’t it?’

Acantha Palk was beginning to visibly wilt and Martha ploughed on mercilessly. ‘I suggest if you have the letter with you, you hand it over now. And if you do not have it you arrange for it to be delivered to me at the earliest possible opportunity.’ She paused. Acantha’s eyes were practically boiling with rage. ‘As you are a solicitor, Mrs Palk, you probably know that it is an offence to suppress any information which is pertinent to an unexpected, unexplained. suspicious death. My powers and my position demand that you put this information into my hand as soon as possible or I shall have to accuse you of concealment and inform the police.’

After a short, tight-lipped pause Acantha Palk spoke. ‘How did you know?’ she asked. ‘How could you possibly have known that Alice left a note? Suicides don’t always.’

‘People work in certain predictable ways,’ Martha responded. ‘I did not believe that Alice Sedgewick would elect to leave this world without explaining to her family why she was doing it.’

Acantha Palk stared.

‘It was addressed to you wasn’t it?’

Acantha Palk nodded.

‘Do you have it with you?’

‘No.’

‘Where is it?’

‘At home.’

‘Did you tell Mr Sedgewick that his wife had, in fact, left a suicide note?’

Acantha Palk nodded. ‘It was he who told me to destroy it.’

‘Aaah,’ Martha said.

The vaguest, faintest smile crossed Acantha Palk’s face. ‘Much as it would have been more convenient and better for everybody if the note was burnt, as a solicitor, it went against the grain to destroy evidence.’

‘Alice Sedgewick is dead,’ Martha said, leaning forward. ‘These were her last words. It was her explanation, sent to you because she trusted you. You could not betray that trust. You could not deny your friend this last, plaintive voice, could you? Or her relatives the satisfaction of knowing why?’

‘No. Not really.’

‘Then would you mind?’

Half an hour later Martha had read through the letter. And part of the story unfolded.

Dear Canthie,

By the time you read this I will be dead but I had to set the slate right by you. I want you to speak to Gregory, to explain. He has been such a devoted son, loving and caring as much as he could when his father was so – well – difficult. As you know Aaron is the stronger of us two and can be a little… just a little, overbearing.

My behaviour must have seemed inexplicable to you as perhaps other things might have struck you in the past. But you have said nothing. Ten years ago, I unexpectedly found that I was pregnant. I was very confused. Gregory and Rosie were grown up. I had not expected to have another child so late in life. I was in my forties. Then as I made certain that I was not mistaken I was thrilled. Absolutely ecstatic, if you want to know. It seemed like a gift. A great gift. From above. I had loved being a mother and missed my children, in particular when Gregory left home. I hated the boarding-school years. This child, I vowed, I would keep close to me. But Aaron put all sorts of objections in my way. He worried the child would be deformed. You know how he likes things his way and hates what he sees as imperfections. In fact he was livid that I was pregnant. At first he accused me of being simply careless but as I got more excited about the child he started accusing me firstly of having deliberately tried to get pregnant and then that it was not his child but a lover’s. Acantha, I never had a lover. It was undoubtedly his child. But he would not accept it. He insisted. Absolutely insisted that I have an abortion. I tried everything to persuade him that it was our child, pointed out how close he was, in particular, to Rosie and that this could perhaps be a second daughter but he became violent and said, quite cruelly, that it might be another son. I am so sorry and guilty now. When I went to the doctor and said I did not want this child, I was lying. Since then I have lived with the consequences of that lie. That child has stayed in my mind ever since. I called her Poppy. Every day I hear her cry. I see her face. I nurse her. I play with her. Aaron thought if we moved house it would make me forget. But I made a room for her in the new place and Aaron finally lost his temper. He made an appointment for me to see a psychiatrist and told him I was mad. I wanted to tell Dr Richmond but Aaron sat in with me and I could say nothing of the truth. Dr Richmond diagnosed me with depression. So I allowed myself to be drugged and treated for an illness I did not have. I was simply grieving for my lost daughter. Acantha, you must have wondered why I decorated a bedroom in children’s wallpaper. I did it for Poppy. I bought her clothes, a cot, blankets, toys.

When I found the baby in the attic I believed it was her, that somehow she had not been aborted but had lived and died – somewhere. I took the old blanket away from her. I nursed her. I wrapped her in a new blanket and took her back to the hospital so she would not haunt me any more. But I was wrong. She has. She has not left me. Poppy is still here with me and now we must go together. Please explain to Gregory. Tell him I will miss my visits to him. Thank him for the happiness he has given me. Thank you, dear friend, for all you’ve done. Give my love to my family. Tell Aaron I am with Poppy. One last wish: I wish to be cremated and my ashes scattered somewhere near the hospital. I believe they have a garden there for such purposes. Goodbye, my darling. I am happy.

Martha looked up. ‘You couldn’t have suppressed this,’ she said. ‘Not her last words to her son. Her dying wishes.’

‘Well, I didn’t, did I?’

There was no remorse coming from Mrs Palk. She was on the defensive. Martha leaned forward. ‘I shall put this letter in the hands of the police,’ she said. ‘It’s up to them whether they charge you. It will find its way to Gregory Sedgewick. I think,’ she said, fingering the sheet of paper, ‘that it’s one of the most poignant notes I’ve ever read.’