The Boat House Read online

  ‘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 u
nderstand 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.

  ‘It’s for Mr Preston,’ she told them breathlessly. ‘From Number 24. They said it’s urgent!’

  ‘That’s Nan!’ Richard jumped to his feet and followed her back into the house leaving Marianne and Ida exchanging looks of alarm.

  Then Ida raised her eyebrows and whispered, ‘If the old girl has died it might be God’s will!’

  Marianne considered several comments but uttered none of them.

  Richard appeared in some distress. ‘It’s Nan. She’s had a stroke and they’ve taken her to the cottage hospital. Please excuse me. I’ll have to dash!’

  Just then Emmie and Edie arrived at the table saying they were thirsty and eyeing the jug of lemonade.

  Ida smiled, ‘Go and ask Cook for two more mugs and then you can join us. It’s a good thing we didn’t eat all the biscuits!’

  THIRTEEN

  That night Georgina waited until the house was quiet and the church clock had struck midnight, then she put her plan into action. She now had nearly a hundred sleeping pills – the small lie had served her well, she thought – and she made her way in her bare feet along the passage to the bathroom at the far end. There she locked the door, poured herself a glass of water and began to swallow the tablets, two at a time.

  It was strange to be on her feet again and she did feel a little unsteady, but that was of no concern. The purpose of the exercise, she reminded herself, was to apparently slip away in her sleep so that everyone would believe she had died a natural death. They would read the letter and discover the truth about Leonora and that would be bad enough. She did not want to add the crime of suicide to her legacy because she was trying to save the twins from any more grief. She had caused them enough damage.

  When she had taken all the pills she waited for a moment to see if anything immediate happened but, finding that she felt no different, she unlocked the bathroom door and began the slow journey towards the stairs. They would be the worst hurdle, she knew, but she was determined to die in Neil’s bed in his room. That way she could talk to him until the end came, knowing that he understood exactly what she was doing and why – and that he forgave her.

  Making her way up the stairs was more difficult than she had imagined and took a deal longer but, pausing on every other step to catch her breath, she gradually reached the second landing. Only yards to go, she told herself.

  ‘Come on, Georgina! You can do it. You have to do it!’

  Gathering her remaining strength, she struggled slowly and silently to the door of Neil’s room and then reached into the pocket of her dressing gown for the key.

  Minutes later, to her great relief, she had opened the curtains and had then managed to climb up on to the bed and was now snuggled down beneath the sheets. She smiled.

  ‘Were you helping me, Neil?’ she asked. ‘I don’t think I could have done it without you. I knew I could rely on you. You were always so dependable, dear.’

  Well, maybe not always, she amended silently. He had not been dependable when he had gone rushing away to look for Leonora, but that was all in the past and she had never reproached him.

  She paused to consider how she felt. Out of breath and totally exhausted, but she had expected her heart to be racing and it felt no different. Probably because she had taken the journey very slowly and sensibly. ‘I did, Neil,’ she told him. ‘I planned it all and I did it. Poor Marianne believed my little story and went trotting off to the doctor. Not that he was there – they never are in an emergency!’ She gave a little laugh to reassure her son that she was not suffering in any way but simply c
arrying out what she thought of as ‘the grand design’. ‘But she saw the doctor’s wife who was very helpful and looked up my pills in my notes and counted them out for me. I believe she used to be a nurse before she married . . . I do hope no one blames poor Marianne.’

  The room was lit by moonlight and she gazed round at the familiar room with pleasure. As she did so her heart gave a little jump. ‘Too late!’ she told it. ‘I’m ahead of you!’

  Soon she would be with her son and her husband and all the unpleasantness would be a thing of the past. She would not even remember it. Heaven was exactly that – peace and love.

  Georgina closed her eyes. ‘Not long, dear,’ she told him and wondered what would happen in the morning when they found her.

  It was seven o’clock next morning before the doctor’s wife remembered to tell her husband about Mrs Matlowe’s sleeping pills and then he swore under his breath, tugged on his clothes and, ignoring his wife’s plea for an explanation, raced out of the house and along the road, round the corner and up to The Poplars, by which time his own sixty-year-old heart was thumping uncomfortably. Muttering yet another curse, he hammered impatiently on the door with the brass knocker and then put his finger on the bell and left it there.

  Ida reached the door first and opened it. The doctor gasped, ‘Where’s Mrs Matlowe? Is she all right? This pill business . . .’ He gulped for air. ‘It sounds suspicious . . . I don’t like the sound of it!’

  Ida stammered, ‘Where is she? Why, in bed of course. Where else can she be?’

  ‘And is she . . .?’ He paused for breath and quickly repeated what his wife had told him. ‘Sometimes, when a patient asks for extra pills it can be . . . ominous, if you get my meaning. Do me a favour, will you, and go up to her. I just want to be reassured there is nothing amiss.’

  Needing no extra persuading, Ida hurried up the stairs and knocked on her sister’s door. When the knock wasn’t answered, her own alarm increased and when she saw the empty bed she screamed. The doctor at once hurried up the stairs and for a moment they both stared at the empty bed.