The Day She Cradled Me Page 14

  I am surprised. ‘They found the child was murdered.’

  ‘Yes, but they did not name names, did they?’ He pauses. ‘Reverend, I shall come straight to the point. The case would benefit greatly by a confession.’

  I cannot meet his eyes. ‘I have not had one as yet.’

  ‘Come on now, man.’ He folds his arms and shakes his head. ‘Just how far off are you? I understand you have kept counsel with the woman, and for a considerable period, and been privy to private information. Listen —’ his voice drops — ‘that result in there was a disappointment to say the least. Not naming the woman proves our case is not as impermeable as we had hoped. I cannot fathom it, but there it is.’ He looks back to the courthouse. ‘I understand this next jury will be counselled as to the importance of a more conclusive verdict, and I can only pray they heed that recommendation, but I must tell you, should it go further — nay, when it reaches the Supreme Court — we will all benefit from the woman confessing her crimes. And it is you, Reverend, on whom we rely for facilitating that.’

  ‘You have placed a difficult task at my feet.’

  ‘But that is your role, is it not? Your duty? God’s will, or whatever else you call it? Come on, man, how hard can it be? We all know she’s guilty — there is no question. You yourself heard the evidence. Now just make her admit it.’

  ‘You rather simplify things, Sergeant.’

  ‘It all seems very simple to me, Reverend, perhaps that is why. At the hearing and the trial, Hanlon will have right of speech. He will also have right of cross-examination, unlike up to this point. Even without that, we have had a mixed verdict and quite frankly it makes me nervous. More than nervous. It would seem we are all doing our duty to bring those babies justice — the police, the prosecution, even the jury. But you, Reverend? What will it take for you to understand your part here? A vital part. I’m not saying we’re desperate, far from it. She is guilty, and I have every confidence she’ll pay with her life. But a confession? That would seal the case, Reverend, seal it good and fast.’ He turns on his heel and strides towards the courthouse door. ‘I leave it in your hands, Reverend,’ he adds over his shoulder. ‘Just don’t fail.’

  ‘I examined the kidneys first,’ says Professor Black, ‘and found a trace of morphia in a small portion. I wanted to know how much morphia was in the lot, so I then made an examination of three-quarters of each organ and mixed them together. As a result I found both morphia and meconic acid. I weighed the morphia and found as much as would be obtained from one grain of the best opium known, or one and a half of medium opium, or two and a half of inferior opium — assuming that the one-fourth not analysed contained the same proportion.’

  ‘How does this relate to the laudanum the child was given?’

  ‘Opium contains morphia and meconic acid. Laudanum is an alcoholic extract of opium.’

  ‘I understand. Would this quantity have represented a poisonous dose in a child of about twelve months?’

  ‘In my opinion the quantity of opium found in the organs would decidedly produce death in a child of that age.’

  It is over. At last.

  ‘Will the coroner address the jury?’

  Mr Roche strokes his beard. ‘I would like to highly compliment the police and the Crown prosecutor for the manner in which the evidence has been worked up and submitted.’ Sergeant Macdonnell nods his head and Constable Rasmussen’s cheeks flush. ‘If the child had died of natural causes, there would have been no need for secrecy about the burial, no need for dumping it with the body of another child under two feet of soil. I do not think the jury will experience any difficulty in arriving at a verdict.’

  We have not even left the courtroom when the jury returns.

  ‘Our verdict,’ the foreman says when we have all resettled ourselves, ‘is that Dorothy Edith Carter met her death on the second of May, between Winton and Lumsden, through poison administered by Minnie Dean.’

  ‘Then you find that Minnie Dean has been guilty of murder?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Mr Rawson barely contains a smile. He turns from the foreman to the rest of the jury. ‘So say you all?’

  They nod. ‘So say we all.’

  ‘Please, don’t do it,’ Jessie says. ‘Don’t go tomorrow.’

  ‘I must.’

  ‘But, George, I have a list longer than my arm’s length of people who require your attendance — good people, God-fearing people.’ She shakes her head sadly. ‘Please don’t go.’

  I take the forks from her hand and start to move around the table, laying each one at its place. ‘Jessie, I know how much this upsets you —’

  ‘Children, George. She killed children. For money. How can you even bear to share the same room?’

  ‘It isn’t easy … Jessie?’ She is crying. I take her hand and lead her to a chair. ‘Please understand.’ I kneel on the floor in front of her. ‘I only want to do as God bids. He has given me this task, and I shall do it to my utmost.’

  ‘You are telling me that God wants you to befriend a baby killer?’

  ‘No, that’s not —’

  ‘Then what exactly are you doing, George? Attending the inquests — do you know what talk that has provoked? What derision has been aimed at your intentions? The boys — their friends talk. Just today I had Edward in tears over names being applied to his father. And do you know what I said? I told him his father will have reasons. Good, sound reasons. But I need to know — what are they?’

  ‘I … I am trying to encourage the woman to face up to her actions.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s time you faced your own, George.’

  ‘There is nothing I can say to you I haven’t said already. When we first discussed marriage, I warned you it may not be easy. You made a promise —’

  ‘No, you made a promise. You told me you knew it was folly to try to help the woman. And the next day — the very next day — there you were, in the court, giving her comfort while the rest of the parish are left to fend —’

  ‘That is unfair, Jessie, and you know it. I have spent many nights by Sarah Dickson’s bedside.’

  ‘Fewer hours than you spent in Mrs Dean’s cell, I’d wager.’

  ‘What has got into you? You have no right to speak to me in this manner. If I feel so inclined as to attend the hearing tomorrow, then you are not going to stop me —’

  I look at her face, the tears running down her cheeks. ‘Jessie, forgive me my harsh words. I do not know what has come over me. I’m under so much pressure of late, I don’t know where I am any more, or what is intended. One moment God’s purpose seems clear, and the next …’ I cannot explain. ‘I know how much this upsets you. It upsets me as well. A child’s life — it is abhorrent to think a woman capable of taking it in so vile and appalling a manner.’

  I shake my head and take a step to run my hand over the seventh seating at the table. ‘You still set it, after all this time.’

  ‘It is for passers-by — we cannot know who may take a place at our table on a given evening.’ Her eyes glisten.

  ‘Oh, love.’ I take her hand. ‘His clothes remain in the drawers. We cannot keep them there forever. And his wooden horse, Jess. Surely we could find a family in need? And his place at the table —’

  ‘It is for passers-by.’ She leans against my chest, and I hold the back of her head as she sobs.

  ‘I miss him too.’

  ‘Then how can you bring yourself —’

  ‘Our wee Georgie had nothing to do with the woman Dean. You know that. It was not her fault.’

  ‘It breaks my heart that she took children, children like Georgie — it breaks my heart.’

  ‘I know it does, I know. But that cannot be a reason for denying Mrs Dean the chance for redemption.’

  ‘Don’t go, George. Please? For me? Keep out of the courthouse. Promise me?’

  I cannot break her beautiful heart further. ‘All right, my love. If it will make things easier on you. I promise.’

  The
following morning comes shrouded in fog as murky as my thoughts. I have far to travel and many upon whom to call, so I leave my bicycle and instead saddle my mare, a trusty mount I have had the past twelve months and capable of carrying me the distance. I bid farewell to Jessie and the boys and, true to my word, head in the direction of the Macdonnell cottage, then on towards the Proudfoot residence, where I help prepare kindling for the two elderly sisters without men, who both suffer terribly from seized joints. From there it is a short ride to the home of Alan Garland, with whom I discuss affairs of the farm, and then on to the Sutherland property, where Alice Sutherland decries the solitude of farm life and I promise her a meal with us at the manse. By the time I reach my last parishioner, the afternoon is growing dark and my horse looks longingly towards home. I am sorely tempted to appease her, although this owes more than a little to my apprehensions of visiting with Mrs Parsons. It is hardly reason to deprive her of the Lord’s word, but she will surely wish to discuss Mrs Dean, having seen me in court. ‘Just one more,’ I say, rubbing the horse’s snout with my hand. ‘There’ll be a good feed of oats for you tonight.’ She whinnies in response, and I climb the steps and tap upon the door.

  ‘Ah, Reverend, is that you out there in the cold?’ The curtain falls back and old Mrs Parsons opens up and ushers me inside. ‘So good of you to come by. I thought you might have been busy, what with the hearing today. I was surprised to see you at the inquest, but then I am not one to gossip.’

  ‘I spent today amongst people such as your good self,’ I say as I seat myself before the fire and tell her of those I have visited.

  ‘Good Lord, Reverend, you have had quite the journey. Let me arrange some refreshment. Margaret is not back yet — I am afraid you will have to content yourself with the humble offerings of an old woman.’ She busies herself about the table and soon returns with tea and a plate of scones. ‘Yes, it is a sorry affair indeed. A woman accused of such a crime —’

  ‘I really cannot comment, Mrs Parsons. We are none of us her true judge. She will meet Him when He is ready.’

  She raises her eyebrows and nods. ‘That’s how you see it.’

  ‘Of course.’

  She pours the tea. ‘I knew her aunt, oh, a long way back. A proud woman, remarkably gifted with medicines and the like. Granny Kelly.’

  ‘Kelly?’ I cannot help myself.

  ‘Mrs John Kelly. You didn’t know?’

  ‘I know of but one John Kelly, and it can’t poss —’

  ‘Ah, but it is. There is only one. Founder of Invercargill.’

  I shake my head. ‘But Mrs Dean’s aunt was married to a Scottish husband.’ I search my memory, ‘Dugald —’

  ‘Niven. Tree fell on him, poor fellow.’

  I cringe. ‘So this … Granny Kelly was —’

  ‘— the woman Dean’s aunt, yes, that’s right. Christina Kelly. Wonderful soul. She had an incredible medicinal gift. Learnt it from the Maoris. Could cure almost anything.’ She pauses for me to enquire further.

  ‘You knew her well then?’

  ‘Well enough. Enough to be shocked when I heard the news. Only reason I was at the inquest was to see it with my own eyes. She loved the girl, I know that much. And those wee grand-nieces of hers. Now, what were their names? Isn’t old age a terrible penance? I’d forget my own daughter if she didn’t live with me.’

  I shake my head. ‘I’m afraid I would not know their names.’

  ‘Let me think.’ She taps at her lips with a finger. ‘No, it’s gone. Though I’ve a clipping here from the paper that should have her name — the eldest girl at any rate. Terrible affair that was too. Can only be grateful the old woman wasn’t alive to see it. Now, where would I have put it?’ She sets about opening drawers and rifling through piles of newspapers.

  ‘Really, Mrs Parsons, you needn’t bother. I must be off. Mrs Lindsay will have my supper ready. I mustn’t keep her waiting.’

  ‘Of course, but listen, it’s got to be here somewhere. I’m sure of it. Just take me a minute. I had it out only the other morning when Margaret and I were talking. Let me see. Wait, I know.’ She picks up a book, and a lengthy-looking newspaper cutting falls to the floor.

  ‘I should be going,’ I say.

  ‘Take it with you. I know you will return it. Else I know where to find you, don’t I? Take a scone as well and one each for the boys.’ I slip the paper into my coat as she puts the buns inside a small basket. ‘Pass on my regards to Mrs Lindsay.’

  ‘And mine to Margaret.’

  ‘Certainly. Oh, wait, you can do that for yourself. Here she comes now.’ She puts her head out the door. ‘Margaret?’

  ‘Mother,’ the voice comes back, ‘you’ll never guess what’s happened. It was just awful.’ Margaret bustles inside, barely removing her hat before she is off again. ‘There was screaming and crying. Lots of shouts.’

  ‘Margaret. What is the matter with you? Say good day to Reverend Lindsay.’

  ‘Reverend? Oh, I am dreadfully sorry.’ She bobs a curtsey. ‘I was excited. I just cannot keep myself from shaking.’

  ‘Margaret, what in the name of the Lord has got you so worked up?’

  ‘It’s the Deans,’ she says. ‘The Deans. The hearing. You’ll never guess. Mrs Dean has been sent up — she’s going to trial on account of murder. But her husband, he got off. They sent him home. She’s on her own now, that Mrs Dean. She’s on her own.’

  Her voice shakes when she sees me.

  ‘It is good of you to come. I didn’t expect you.’

  ‘I wanted to see how you were faring.’

  ‘Well enough. My lawyers have been — you’ve barely missed them. They’re preparing for the final inquest tomorrow, though it hardly matters now, does it?’

  I do not know what to say. ‘At least your husband has been acquitted.’

  ‘The stain already on him will not easily be cleansed.’

  We sit in silence. Rain seeps through the roof and down into a pail on the floor. It is filling fast, and I am about to rise and call Mrs Bratby when Mrs Dean speaks again.

  ‘How is your garden?’ she asks.

  ‘My garden?’

  ‘You have one, I presume.’

  I want to respond but I cannot recall anything about my garden of recent times. Mrs Dean does not seem to notice; indeed, her eyes suggest she is not even here in this cell but far away, miles away. Possibly years away.

  ‘I long to be outside,’ she says, ‘to walk about a garden, smell the perfume of rain on the grass.’

  ‘Well … I …’

  ‘It isn’t natural to be kept confined like an old sow fated for Christmas supper.’ She looks at me. ‘You do not pay your garden much heed?’

  ‘I admit, I do leave it to the gardener. And of course my wife. She has a way with plants, I confess —’ I stumble over the word, but she makes no remark.

  ‘There was a garden in Launceston,’ she says, ‘but it was not my place to tend to it. That too was the responsibility of a gardener, not the governess.’

  ‘You were governess?’ She smiles sadly. ‘For a spell. After I’d given birth.’ She pauses. ‘I want you to know I registered it, father and all.’

  ‘I am impressed.’

  She sucks in her lips. ‘Had the paperwork done: mother Williamina McCulloch, father Frederick McPhee. Which was true, as you know.’ She hesitates. ‘Though I told everyone he was a surgeon. And that I was a widow.’

  I see. ‘You found lodgings?’

  ‘Oh yes, I found lodgings.’ Her eyes drop. ‘Mrs Todd’s cousin already had baby three by that time and was expecting her fourth, so I was taken on as governess almost immediately.’

  ‘In exchange for lodgings?’

  ‘In a manner, yes. To begin with, at least. I can see on your face that you don’t understand. Well, let’s just say that while Mrs Todd’s cousin was as sweet in temperament as Mrs Todd, her husband was not.’

  ‘He … he didn’t mistreat you, or your little one?’ />
  ‘Not at first. No. Not until he found out my lies in a letter sent from Mrs Todd — innocently, of course, she had no idea of the story I’d made up — and he lost no time in using them to his benefit.’

  ‘I’m afraid I still do not understand.’

  ‘A man has needs, Reverend. Urges. Desires. Precisely what has led to my downfall on a number of occasions, I can tell you.’

  I do not wish to hear of such things.

  ‘After a period of time it was inevitable.’

  ‘You were —’

  ‘With child again? Yes. He lost no time in getting rid of me after that. First boat wherever I desired, at his expense, and with a few extra guineas thrown in. Of course I couldn’t return to Scotland with two illegitimate babies.’ She lifts her eyebrows and smiles. ‘So I came here. To Aunt Christina.’ She pauses. ‘The story I invented in Launceston was naught compared to the falsehoods we concocted together here in Invercargill …’

  Dear Lord. ‘Let us pray.’

  Minnie

  Invercargill, New Zealand

  1863

  ‘Minnie? Is that you?’

  Aunt Christina’s gaze slides from my swollen belly down to Ellie peeking round from behind my skirts. I nod, and she throws her arms around me, squashing my bump and crushing little Ellie in the process. ‘Minnie, how wonderful it is to see you. Please —’ she indicates to the driver — ‘bring in the bags. Come, my dear, let me take you inside. Are you hungry?’ She ushers us up the steps and into the house. ‘When did you last eat?’

  ‘We had breakfast in the hotel at the Bluff,’ I say, taking off Ellie’s bonnet and smoothing down her hair.

  ‘But it’s near nightfall. You must be starving.’ She glances again at my belly. ‘Are you expecting anyone further?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘I see.’ She pulls out a chair, and I sit down, exhausted. ‘I expect you would like some supper, would you, child?’ She reaches out her hand to Ellie. ‘You’re not scared of me, are you? Tell me your name. Is it Cedric?’ Ellie remains still. ‘No? Is it John? I had a husband called John, did you know that? When he died, I planted him in the garden.’ She winks at me. Ellie stares wide-eyed out the window to the flower bed. ‘Not that he’s there now, mind. Had to shift him to the cemetery. Bit of a long way for my tired old legs, but the walk is good for me.’ She chuckles. ‘So, it isn’t John or Cedric. Well, you had better tell me then. What is your name?’