THE PIANO IN the corner of the parlour hadn’t been used for over three years … not since Jack first left for France. Nobody had had the heart to lift the lid since we received the dreadful news because the very sight of those black and white keys brought back memories of how he used to sit there and play.
Jack had known all the latest tunes and I can see him now, turning his head round and telling us to join in. “Come on,” he’d say. “I’m not singing a solo.” And when he sang, unlike me, he’d always be in perfect tune. Our Aunty Vi used to say he should be on the stage.
I stood in the parlour doorway and stared into the room with its big dark fireplace and its heavy oak furniture. It looked as it always had done, polished and spotless. The best room that we only used on Sundays. Sometimes I wondered what was the use of having a room you only used one day a week, but that was the way things were done in all the houses round here. Except when Jack had played the piano and sent a ray of sunshine into the solemn, polish-scented gloom.
“Ivy, what are you doing?”
My mother’s voice made me jump and I swung round, feeling guilty. I’d been daydreaming again and in our house daydreaming was regarded as a major sin.
“I was just on my way to the washhouse.”
“Well, go on then. Don’t leave your sister to do all the work while you stand around thinking of higher things.”
I knew from the way she snapped the words that she wasn’t having a good day. Perhaps Mondays were the worst. We’d had the telegram from the War Office on a Monday when our hands were wet and red from the washing.
“I’m going next door to take Mrs Bevan some soup,” she said, nodding towards the jug she was holding; our best jug covered with a clean white cloth.
She’d been taking soup to Mrs Bevan for the past week, even though our neighbour had a daughter to nurse her in her time of sickness. In my opinion Mrs Bevan didn’t deserve our kindness but Mother was like that to anyone who was ill or had fallen on hard times. When Dad was alive he’d called her a saint.
As she adjusted the cloth, I caught the salty aroma of the soup and I suddenly felt hungry. But it was washday and there was work to be done.
I spent the rest of the morning helping Rose in the washhouse and when Mother didn’t appear to supervise our efforts like she usually did, I began to worry. My sister, however, didn’t seem at all concerned and I guessed she was relieved that Mother wasn’t there to scold her for her clumsiness. But when an hour passed and Mother still hadn’t returned, even Rose began to feel uneasy.
“Perhaps Mrs Bevan’s taken a turn for the worse,” Rose said. “Betty Bevan wouldn’t be much help in the sickroom. She’s never liked getting her hands dirty.”
I shared Rose’s opinion of our neighbour’s daughter, who had obtained employment as a lady typist and considered herself above the menial work necessary to run a household if one could not afford servants. Betty Bevan had always been an impractical girl with ideas above her station and I knew she wouldn’t be able to cope on her own if Mrs Bevan was really poorly. But the thought of Mother pandering to her whims made my blood boil with anger.
As I put a sheet through the mangle, I noticed a feather on the cobbled floor, wet and curled. A white feather, probably from a pillow or eiderdown. I stared at it for a few moments then I kicked at it and the dirt from my boot stained it the same dirty grey as the stone floor. I was about to pick it up when Mother appeared in the doorway. She was wiping her hands on her apron and, from the look of distress on her face I knew something had happened.
Rose and I waited for her to speak.
“She’s dead,” she said after a few moments, speaking in a whisper as though she didn’t want to be overheard. “Mrs Bevan’s dead.”
I bowed my head. Another death. Our world was full of death.
***
Mother laid Mrs Bevan out. Betty hadn’t known what to do and, besides, she hadn’t stopped bursting into tears since it happened, twisting her silly scrap of a lace handkerchief in her soft, well-manicured fingers.
I gathered that Betty was planning a rather grand funeral, Mrs Bevan having paid into an insurance policy to ensure that she had a good send off, and she told Mother proudly that the hearse was to be the undertaker’s best, pulled by four black horses with black glossy plumes. Normally Mother would have relished the prospect of seeing such a spectacle outside our terraced house, but when she returned home she seemed quiet and preoccupied. I knew for certain that it wasn’t grief that had subdued her spirits, for she had never regarded Mrs Bevan as a close friend. Something else was preying on her mind and I longed to know what it was.
I was to find out later that day when a police constable arrived along with the doctor. Mother had summoned them and they were making enquiries into the cause of Mrs Bevan’s unexpected death.
***
Rose told me in a whisper that Mrs Bevan’s body had been taken to the mortuary to be cut up. The intrusion seemed to me obscene and I shuddered in horror at the very thought. Even Jack hadn’t had to suffer that indignity. He had been trundled off on a cart and buried near the battlefield. A soldier known unto God. It was said that poppies grew where he fell, taking their scarlet colour from his innocent blood. Perhaps one day I would see those grim flowers for myself.
Mother would not tell my sister why she had alerted the police. She set her lips in a stubborn line and resisted all Rose’s attempts to wheedle the truth out of her. But when she had first returned from the Bevan house she had asked my advice so I knew exactly why she had acted as she did.
I recalled her words, spoken in a whisper so that Rose would not hear.
“There’s something amiss, Ivy,” she said. “And that Betty was acting as if she didn’t give a cuss until she saw me watching her then the waterworks started.”
“What do you mean, amiss?” I asked.
“That was no chill on the stomach. She couldn’t keep my good soup down and she was retching and soiling herself as though … as though she’d been poisoned.”
I remember gasping with disbelief. “You think Betty poisoned her mother?”
“She always was a nasty spoiled child. And she’s turned into a nasty spoiled woman. That’s what I’ll tell the police.”
“But you can’t just accuse …”
“That woman was poisoned. I’m as sure of that as I am of my own name.”
Once Mother set her mind to something she could never be dissuaded. Therefore, when Mrs Bevan was lying in the big front bedroom next door, washed and laid out neatly in her best nightgown, it came as no surprise when Mother walked down to the police station and told the desk sergeant that she wished to report a murder.
***
The police searched the house next door, of course, and I heard later that they’d found a quantity of arsenic hidden in the wash-house. At first Betty swore that she had no idea how it came to be there. Then later she changed her story and said that her mother was probably keeping it there to kill mice.
The story didn’t convince Mother or myself. And it certainly didn’t convince the police because a few days later two constables called next door to arrest Betty Bevan.
Rose and I watched from the window as the younger constable led her away, holding her arm gently like a bridegroom leading his bride from the altar. Betty’s head was bowed and I knew she was crying. But I could feel no pity for her.
***
It was three days after Betty’s arrest and even the most inquisitive of our neighbours had failed to discover what was happening. Mother talked little about the tragedy next door; Rose, however, chattered on about it with unseemly enthusiasm and I had to do my best to curtail her curiosity. Terrible murder is one of those things that should not be treated as entertainment for wagging tongues but I confess that I too wished to know what had become of Betty Bevan.
At number sixteen we tried our best to carry on as normal but on Thursday afternoon something occurred that made this impossible, for me at least.
I was peeling vegetables for the evening meal in our tiny scullery when I heard a scraping noise coming from next door. Our scullery was attached to the Bevans’ and the walls were thin so we could often hear their voices, sometimes raised in dispute. However, I knew the Bevans’ house was supposed to be empty so I stopped what I was doing and listened.
I could hear things being moved around next door; a furtive sound as though somebody was shifting the contents of the scullery shelves to conduct a clandestine search. I put down my knife and wiped my rough hands on my apron, telling myself that it was probably the police – but then the police have no need for secrecy. I had been no friend of the Bevans but if robbers were violating their empty house, I felt it was my duty as a neighbour to raise the alarm.
I crept out of the back door into our yard. The wall between the back yards was too high for me to see into next door so I let myself out into the back alley and pushed the Bevans’ wooden gate open, trying not to make a sound. Once inside their yard, I crept past the privy and caught a whiff of something unpleasant. It had not been cleaned and scrubbed like our privy next door, but then I could hardly imagine Betty Bevan, or her mother for that matter, getting down on her hands and knees to wipe away the worst kind of filth.
When I reached the back door, I tried the latch and, to my surprise, it yielded and the door swung open. I do not know who was more surprised, myself or the young man standing there with a tea caddy in his hand. He was dressed in a dark, ill-fitting suit and his ginger hair was short and slicked back. With his sharp nose and small moustache, he reminded me a little of a rodent … a rat perhaps. As soon as he saw me his lips tilted upwards in an ingratiating smile and I saw that one of his front teeth was missing.
“You didn’t half give me a shock,” he said with forced jocularity. His accent was local but I didn’t think I had ever seen him before.
“Who are you?”
“Friend of Betty’s. The name’s Winslow … Albert Winslow. Here’s my card.”
He produced a card from his pocket and handed it to me with a flourish. I studied it and learned that Albert Winslow was an insurance man. The local accent I’d detected in his unguarded greeting had vanished and now he spoke as if he was a person of the better sort, like the officers I’d overheard talking when Jack’s regiment had marched through town. I had no doubt he wished to impress me and I felt myself blush.
I handed the card back to him. “You haven’t said what you’re doing here?”
“Neither have you, Miss.” There was impertinence in his statement but I knew he had a point.
“I live next door. I heard a noise and I knew the house was empty so …”
“You thought I was a burglar. I’m sorry to disappoint you. I’ve just come to retrieve something I left here on my last visit so you’ve nothing to worry your head over. And what a pretty head it is, if I may say so.”
I felt myself blushing again but I tried my best to ignore the remark. “I take it you know that Betty’s …”
He nodded, suddenly solemn. “It’s a bad business. She’s innocent, of course. Devoted to her mama, she was.”
“Are you and Betty courting?”
He hesitated for a moment before nodding. “We were hoping to get engaged this summer.”
“When did you meet?” I was curious for most young men – those who had survived – had recently returned from the war.
“I first met Betty when I called here regarding a life assurance policy.” He edged closer to me and I could smell some kind of cloying scent, his hair oil perhaps. It made me feel a little sick. “They’ll let Betty out soon, won’t they? I mean she couldn’t have done what they say.”
“I couldn’t possibly say, Mr Winslow. The police think she is the only one who had the opportunity to poison her mama.”
Winslow looked worried as he shut the tea caddy he was holding and replaced it on the shelf.
“If they find her guilty she will hang.”
His body tensed and for the first time I felt I was witnessing true emotion. “She can’t. She’s innocent.”
“How can you be so sure, Mr Winslow?”
When he didn’t answer I experienced a sudden feeling of dread. I was alone with this man and I only had his word that the story of his association with Betty Bevan was true.
I decided to enquire further. “You served in the war, Mr Winslow?”
“Naturally. I was at Wipers and Passchendaele. Why? You didn’t think I was a conshy, did you? I wouldn’t have got far with Betty if I had been. She could never stand cowards.”
“You were fortunate, then.”
“How do you mean?”
“To have got back alive. My brother, Jack, died in the last days of the war. He was, er … wounded in 1916 and he came home. But after a year he said he felt a little better and he insisted on going back. He didn’t have to because he still wasn’t right but … He felt … he felt obliged.” I could feel my hands shaking and my eyes were stinging with unshed tears. I knew that I had been foolish to bare my soul to this man. But feelings long suppressed can bubble to the surface when one least expects it.
I saw Winslow shuffle his feet as though my raw outburst had embarrassed him. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I understand, I really do. I saw things over in France that …” His face clouded. Then he straightened his shoulders and gave a cheerless smile. “But you have to keep your spirits up, don’t you … think of the future. Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag and smile and all that.”
I took a deep breath. Some things were best dealt with by stoicism and a cheerful attitude. Other ways might lead to madness. And there was a question I had to ask.
“The life assurance policy you mentioned … was it for Mrs Bevan?”
His pale-blue eyes widened in alarm for a second then he composed his features. “That information’s confidential, I’m afraid, Miss.”
“You might have to tell the police. If Betty stands to gain from her mother’s death …”
“I know what you’re hinting at and it’s nonsense,” he said, taking another step towards me.
“Why did you really come here, Mr Winslow?” I felt I had to know the truth.
“If you must know I came to find something to prove Betty’s innocent.”
“And have you found it?”
He paused and I knew he was making a decision. After a few moments he spoke. “I might as well tell you. If she’s charged it’ll all come out anyway. Three weeks ago she insured her mother’s life for a hundred pounds and I fear that she might have …”
“Poisoned her own mother?”
He nodded and, unexpectedly, I found myself feeling sorry for him.
***
It was a week after my encounter with Albert Winslow that we received the news that Betty Bevan was to stand trial for murder at the Assizes. Little was said of the matter in our house. It was done and it was over and soon she’d be dead … just as my brother Jack was dead. I had never had any liking for her or her murdered mother and it would have been hypocritical in the extreme to start feigning grief now. I saved my tears for those who deserved them.
The following Monday Mother, Rose and I began our normal washday routine, setting the copper boiling in the washhouse ready to receive our soiled linen. When I heard a loud knocking on our front door I wondered who would come calling on a Monday morning, a time when we never expected to receive visitors. I answered the door in my apron with my hair pinned untidily off my face and I was surprised to see Albert Winslow standing on the freshly scrubbed doorstep.
As he raised his hat I suddenly felt uncomfortable. I looked like a washer woman, hardly the sort an insurance clerk would take into his confidence, but he seemed not to notice the state of my apparel. In his right hand he held a small tin box as though it was something fragile and precious and his well-polished shoe hovered on the threshold.
“May I come in?” he said. The arrogance I had detected at our first meeting had vanished and he reminded me now not so much of a rat, but of a puzzled child.
I stood aside to admit him then I led him into the parlour, for I knew that this was a matter between ourselves. I had no wish for our conversation to be interrupted by my mother or my sister.
I invited him to sit and he placed the box on the small table beside the armchair. Suddenly self-conscious I took off my apron and sat up straight on the hard dining chair, my rough, reddened hands resting in my lap.
I waited for him to begin for I felt it was up to him to explain the purpose of his visit. Eventually he cleared his throat and spoke.
“When we parted the other day, I made a further search of the house next door.”
I tilted my head politely. “And did you find anything of interest?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You told the police about the insurance policy?”
“Not yet. I wanted to see Betty before I …”
“Haven’t you seen her?”
He shook his head. “They won’t let me speak to her but I feel I must. I need to ask her what it means.”
“What what means?”
He picked up the box as though it was hot to the touch. “I found this.”
He handed the box to me and I opened it. Inside were five white feathers and a piece of paper.
“It’s a list,” he said quietly. “Your surname is Burton, is it not?”
I nodded, fearing what was coming next.
“The list includes the name Jack Burton. You mentioned your brother Jack died in the last days of the war.” He paused. “This is a list of men Betty or her mother describe as cowards.”
“My brother was no coward,” I snapped. “He fought for his King and country and he lost his life. My brother was a hero.”
“Yes, of course. But his name is on the list in this box.”
“Mrs Bevan and Betty were always too ready to judge others. Perhaps they put Jack’s name on their nasty little list before he signed up for the army, and omitted to remove it.”
A look of relief appeared on Albert Winslow’s face. “Of course.”
I looked him in the eye. “There might be another reason. At one time Betty was rather sweet on Jack but another girl caught his eye. I think Betty was displeased with him and she might have included his name on her list out of spite.”
“You think that Betty is a spiteful girl?” He sounded as if his disappointment was deep and bitter. His goddess had feet of rough and dirty clay.
“She was spiteful and sinful and if I were you I’d forget all about her, Mr Winslow. It is likely she will hang, especially if you tell the police what you know about the insurance. I think you should go along to the police station and tell them now. Justice must be done.”
Albert Winslow nodded slowly and stood up. “We must do our duty … do the right thing.”
I touched his hand. It was softer than mine. “Chin up, Albert. Think how you’d feel if you said nothing and she went and did it again. Because they say when you’ve killed once it’s easier next time.”
He knew I was right. I watched him disappear down the road, slowly with his head bowed like an old man.
***
Betty Bevan was hanged at the end of May. It was a beautiful day, cloudless and warm.
That morning I walked in the park and listened to the sound of the birds, glad it was over.
As I rested on the bench, enjoying the sun on my face, I held a conversation with Jack in my head. I often talked to him, told him things. If he’d been alive, I’m not sure how he would have taken the news but I felt I couldn’t keep it from him. I was his loving sister after all. And everything I’d done had been for him. I’m sure sin isn’t really sin when it’s in a good cause.
Sitting there in the warmth of the May sun, I spotted something on the ground and my heart skipped a beat. It was a feather, shed by some passing bird. A white feather. I bent to pick it up then I held it for a while, turning it in my fingers before throwing it back onto the ground and grinding it into the grass with my heel. Such small things can have such catastrophic consequences.
Jack had been sent home from France, unfit to fight. Every loud sound had made his body shake and he had woken each night, crying out at the unseen horrors that tormented his brain. He’d wander, half crazed, from room to room, staring with frightened, unseeing eyes until one of us would guide him gently back to his own bed. How Mother cried in that year to see her only son, a boy who had always been so cheerful and good-natured, with his mind blasted into insanity by war. Sometimes I wished he could have been maimed some other way; even losing an arm or a leg wouldn’t have been as bad as the way he suffered. But his body had been intact … then.
It was when Jack had been home almost a year that Betty Bevan and her stupid mother began their campaign. All men not at the front, they said in their loud, braying voices, were cowards. They collected white feathers and distributed them to the men they accused, haranguing them with insults as they did so. Their tongues were spiteful and wicked. How I wished I could have had them sent to the front to see how they liked crawling through mud and corpses to certain death.
Jack had always been a proud man and the accusation of cowardice caused him such shame. Mother, Rose and I tried to tell him that he was sick but he didn’t understand. He saw only his strong body and his intact limbs and he swore that he was fit to return to France to fight. Nothing we said would dissuade him from contacting his regiment to say that he was recovered and ready. But his regiment had not heard his screams of terror as he dodged those phantom shells and bullets each night and they hadn’t seen the empty fear and bewilderment in his eyes.
The Bevans must have known how he was. His cries through those thin walls must have kept them awake as they did us. But those two women ignored my mother’s pleas and explanations and a month after Jack left for France, we received the telegram to tell us that he had died a hero.
The Bevans showed our family no mercy. And I showed them no mercy in return. It was a simple matter to soak fly papers and add the arsenic they produced to the soup Mother took to Mrs Bevan each day. It had suited my purpose well for Betty to get the blame when the police found the powder I had placed in their scullery. And now the law had punished her – albeit for the wrong crime for she killed my dearest brother as surely as if she had rammed a knife into his heart.
I suppose the death of Betty Bevan had been my second murder and it had been so easy, just as second murders are reputed to be. A third, I suppose, would be easier still. All sins, I imagine, improve with practice.
I examined the little watch pinned to the front of my dress. It was nearly time for my appointment with Albert Winslow. He said that on our marriage, he will insure his life for a large sum of money so that, should the worst happen, I would be very well provided for.
How I look forward to our wedding day.