The Day She Cradled Me Page 6

  In the meantime Constable King, Detective O’Connor, and four constables from Dunedin commenced a search of the line in the vicinity of Clarendon, a simultaneous search being instituted at Winton. The party at Clarendon did not meet with any success, but the bodies of two infants were unearthed in Mrs Dean’s garden at Winton. Both had been buried quite recently, and one of them has since been identified as that of the child which Mrs Dean took over from Mrs Hornsby near Milburn.

  The other body, that of a child twelve months old, is believed to have been disposed of a day or two prior to her visit to Milburn, information being available as to the disappearance of a child about that time.

  On the discovery of the two bodies the police also arrested Charles Dean, husband of the woman, and he will be charged along with his wife with murder.

  The police have had Mrs Dean under surveillance for some time past. She has long been known to be engaged in baby farming, but owing to her mode of going about things the authorities have had great trouble in dealing with her.

  The case will come on in the Milton Magistrate’s Court on Thursday next, when, however, a remand will most likely be asked for back to Invercargill.

  The affair has caused quite a sensation during the past few days, as much from the gruesomeness of the crime as from its rarity in this colony. The principal credit in connection with it rests undeniably with Constable King, who from the very first showed great shrewdness in following up a very slight clue. Had it not been for his very prompt action we venture to say that no more would ever have been heard of the matter, but that the woman would have pursued her career of crime unchecked for an indefinite period. Constable King has long been known as a most zealous and smart officer, and the present case is only one of many clever captures which he has been prominent in during his career as a police officer.

  A telegram in last night’s ‘Star’ states that the police have unearthed on Mrs Dean’s section at Winton the body of a boy about four years old. Digging operations are still proceeding.

  Reverend George Lindsay

  Monday 27 May 1895

  ‘Reverend Lindsay? Please, come quickly.’

  I feel sure it is the voice of Samuel Dickson, a sound like the whining of a dog when it has been kept enclosed too long. It is an assumption proved correct, for when I stop pedalling and alter the direction of my bicycle towards the call, I spy the familiar bulky figure of the logger running clumsily towards his cottage.

  ‘She wa’ f-fine, Reverend,’ he pants when I reach him, ‘honest to God. Doc said we were past the worst of it, to be sure he said as much.’

  He throws open the door and I follow him inside. The fire is burning, and on the rug in front of it I count seven bairns, eerily subdued for the tenderness of their years. I touch them each softly upon the head, all varying degrees of wild red curls like their father, except for one, the youngest, whose newborn hair is still dark and straight like his mother’s.

  Doctor Macleod emerges from the opposite doorway with his mouth set rigid.

  ‘Are we … t-too late?’ Samuel asks.

  The old doctor shakes his head and holds my eye long enough so I understand the situation to be indeed grave. ‘It is good you had sense to seek out the Reverend, Samuel.’

  The eldest child, a girl, passes the newborn she has been cradling to her father, and fetches me a copy of the Bible from the table. ‘God bless you,’ I say, keeping my own Book tucked away within my robe.

  Sarah Dickson lies upon her bed. Her eyes are closed and she is barely breathing. Her skin is greyish blue, an ominous colour I have seen many times.

  ‘Not long to go,’ the doctor mutters, pulling at the door.

  ‘No, keep it open. I want the children to hear.’

  He pauses. ‘It will do no good, Reverend. She is lost.’ He leaves the door shut and crosses the room to the window. He looks out a moment and reaches for the shutter.

  ‘Would she not benefit from some natural lighting? It is more difficult to keep one’s spirit elevated with the light of day removed. And the children —’

  ‘She will be unaware,’ he says, drawing the shutter closed. ‘And pretences won’t be of any use. There’s nothing further can be done for the woman.’

  ‘There is always hope. We can give Samuel and the children that.’

  ‘There be a day left, two at best, but more likely hours, looking at her.’ He rifles through his black bag. ‘It is sad, of course, but medicine can only do so much. Such is life, I am afraid, Reverend. You of all people understand. Best you let them know they should be preparing their farewells. Nothing more I can do for her. Tell Samuel to give me notice should there be a change. You’ll be staying with them?’

  ‘Actually I am on my way to the —’

  ‘I have an engagement this afternoon, it can’t be helped,’ he says, picking up a newspaper from the table and glancing at it before discarding it again. ‘So you will be here, I take it. Her sister is arriving, I hope around noon. Send one of the children if necessary. Good day to you.’

  I listen closely, and as soon as he leaves the house I open the door and unfasten the shutter, letting the life of day, however cold and murky, into the bedchamber. Lifting the glass vase, I light the small lamp that sits upon the table by the bedside, and though I do not need it, I take the Bible the girl has given me and kneel, placing it beneath Sarah’s far hand. With her other clasped tightly in my own, I close my eyes.

  ‘Almighty and immortal God, giver of life and health; we beseech thee to hear our prayers for thy servant Sarah, for whom we implore thy mercy, that by blessing upon her and upon those who minister to her of thy healing gifts, she may be restored, if it be thy gracious will, to health of body and mind, and give thanks to thee in thy holy Church; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.’

  The eldest girl appears at the door with the tiny babe in her arms. ‘Needs a suckle,’ she says, and carries the infant to her mother, arranging the covers so as to nestle the mouth to the breast. She stands watching. ‘Reverend?’

  ‘Yes, my child.’

  ‘Will she recover?’

  I rise and cup my hand beneath the girl’s chin, tilting her face upwards towards the heavens. ‘If it be God’s will.’

  She nods, her eyes brimming with tears. ‘I understand. But I don’t want her to die. Is my selfishness a sin?’

  I shake my head, and when she cries I wrap my arms around her, letting the sobbing wrench itself from her small body into mine. ‘It is perfectly understandable you should be scared,’ I whisper. ‘God is with you, He will give you what strength and courage you need.’

  ‘But who will look after us? Who will take care of Da?’ She swallows, and turns back to her mother. ‘Baby needs her.’

  ‘You must be strong. For your brothers and sisters, as well as your Da. God will take care of the rest.’

  Samuel brings in another of the younger children. He smiles when he sees his youngest suckling, but his forehead is set deep in lines of grief.

  ‘I have done what I can,’ I say. ‘The rest is not for us to decide.’

  He sniffs and holds his daughter so she can kiss her mother. The little girl wriggles down and climbs in under the bedclothes.

  ‘T’was a hard birthin’,’ Samuel says, rubbing his unshaven chin. ‘She’s been so weak e’er since. What’ll we do, Reverend?’

  ‘We can but pray.’

  ‘Thought she was gettin’ better. Spoke of goin’ to service yesterday, but I would’na have it.’ He looks sideways at me.

  ‘You did what you thought was best.’

  ‘Tis my fault. Should never have left ’er, what with ’er belly so ripe and all these wee bairns. I should’na gone to Milton. But I did’na know. We ’ad nothin’ like this ever happen t’us before. All’s been fine. And she would’na hear of me stayin’. But I should’na left ’er, Reverend.’

  ‘You were not to know.’

  His eyes fall upon the newspaper and he shakes his head. ‘Damn ’er.
’

  ‘Samuel?’

  ‘That baby killer. She’s the reason this ’appened. Full length from Milton station to the court’ouse, people everywhere. That’s why I never got back. Stopped m’ train. Hope the bitch gets what’s comin’ to ’er. Sorry, Reverend.’ He is fighting back the tears.

  ‘It was not your fault, Samuel.’

  ‘Twas m’ fault, cause I should’na been at Milton in the first place.’

  ‘You did not know.’

  He is silent but cannot stop the tears now.

  ‘You look tired, man. Get some rest.’

  ‘I canna rest. Not while she …’

  ‘I will watch the children, Samuel, till family arrive. You stay with Sarah.’

  He looks at me thankfully, and sinks to his knees beside her.

  When the call to St Paul’s first came some six and a half years ago, there was indeed a lot to be considered. In the first instance, the size of the parish was far greater than that which I was used to in Otepopo, and I realised it would take at least a full year to visit each member, as I am wont to do, rather than a mere five or six months. Twice-yearly visits would simply be out of the question. Secondly, the congregation carried with it a burden of debt so large it would require immediate addressing. This was not a positive note on which to begin, particularly given the flock’s general despondency. Not least thirdly, and that which I am most inclined to reflect upon as I bicycle upwind in my cloak and gaiters, was the somewhat daunting reputation of Southland’s wintry weather. I like to joke sometimes that if I had listened to half of what was said of these bitter conditions, we should never have entertained the notion to answer a call from Invercargill. To an extent this is true. Not even the climate in Scotland could have prepared me for the harshness of these winters, and they have not been good for my health. However, the Lord’s work was not meant to be an easy path to follow — and never more so than now as, with my cloak streaming out behind and the icy wind buffeting my mount, I negotiate the tracks beside the train station and continue on in the direction of the gaol.

  This rather imposing facility represents the fourth consideration with which I was faced, for the parish of St Paul’s encompasses the town’s gaol, and I must stand responsible for all of its spiritual affairs — a duty of daunting and sometimes overwhelming proportions. As in this instance. After full consideration I decided that, with the good grace of the Lord, it was a challenge I would meet head on — and indeed I have in the main found enormous satisfaction in it. To spread the word of God amongst these most wayward of souls is to fulfil my life’s promise. To forgive them their sins and cleanse their spirits is to do His work as He intended.

  I prise my numb fingers from the handlebar of my bicycle, feeling somewhat warmed by this knowledge. For one such soul has made the call. And I am here to answer it.

  Inside the gaol I follow the jangle of Mrs Bratby’s keys along the damp brick passageway. The wooden floorboards creak beneath our weight, and the relentless wind whistling through them chills me even more brutally than it did outside. To say I dislike visiting here is indeed an understatement, but I force my thoughts to the task at hand.

  I am not previously acquainted with the prisoner. Indeed, all I know of her I have learned from the papers, and it does not make for pleasant reading. I have also been privy to a good deal of unsolicited gossip, invariably unfavourable towards the woman. To take a baby and then dispose of it for financial gain — what could be more abhorrent? It is not for me to judge, that is true, but it is the most repugnant of crimes. I can only hope that her call to me is genuine and she truly repents her sins.

  As I enter the prisoner’s cell, I am pleased to find her knelt by the bed, her hands clasped in prayer. I turn to signal the matron to leave us, but she is already pulling the door closed from the other side, and I hear the key clanking in the lock. The prisoner looks around. Her smile is warm.

  ‘Reverend,’ she says, rising to her feet. She bows her head slightly and extends her hand in a welcoming gesture, as though receiving me into her parlour rather than her cell.

  Looking around, one could be deceived into thinking a parlour is indeed where we stand, for the cell provides more comfort than any I have ever before attended. A fire roars in the hearth, a vase of flowers sits upon the mantle and a rug lies across the floor between the grate and the bed. A cabinet with a Bible stands near the pillow, and by the far wall is a round table with three chairs for receiving visitors. I can but marvel at such indulgences being afforded one who has committed such atrocities.

  I am startled by the sound of a chair scraping across the floor. The woman is dragging it towards the fire. ‘You are cold,’ she says. ‘Warm your hands.’ She appears around fifty or so, although I would never suppose a woman’s age from looks alone. She wears a dark dress, and is of medium, if slightly stout build; her iron-grey hair is tucked up beneath a floral hat similar to that which my Jessie wears. She takes a log from a basket and carefully positions it upon the flames.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Dean, but I would rather stand. Let me first say how pleased I am that you wish to see me. You have done the right thing, to turn to God at this time.’

  Her face is composed. She sits down on a chair by the table and tucks her feet neatly underneath. ‘There’s something I must discuss with you, Reverend.’

  ‘Of course.’ I pause and hold my breath. Since learning of her call, I have endeavoured to prepare for whatever gruesome confessions she may make. That they involve blameless bairns is not for me to judge, for her only hope of salvation now is to beg forgiveness from the Lord Himself, to acknowledge her atrocities, her sins, and to repent.

  ‘You know the inquests were again delayed?’

  ‘Mrs Dean, if there is something you need to say, before God, it is He who knows all things, it is He from whom you should seek trust, justice —’

  ‘Justice?’ She laughs, and looks away. ‘Reverend Lindsay, I have asked you here for two reasons. My children — I don’t know what’s happened to them. I’m beside myself with worry. Are they in the workhouse? Please, I beg of you, let me see them. They’re so small. Little Punch, she won’t understand this. All I want is to reassure them. Can you do that?’ Her hand rises to cover her mouth, and then drops to her lap.

  I shake my head, unable to fathom the woman’s nerve. ‘I am sorry, Mrs Dean, I do not believe it possible.’ Her fingers pluck at the hem of her apron, and I cannot help but imagine what terrible violence they have inflicted. To grant her access to other children would surely be a sin in itself. ‘You had a second reason for wishing to see me?’

  Her fingers halt. ‘I wanted to ask if you could attend tomorrow.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘The inquest,’ she says. ‘I don’t understand the delays, and nor do I care for the way the police and the prosecution do their business. I don’t trust them. They’re up to no good, I’m certain.’

  I am astounded. ‘I am sure they are just doing their duty, Mrs Dean.’

  She looks at me doubtfully. ‘They’re out for me, Reverend; they’ll stop at nothing.’

  ‘You are mistaken.’

  ‘No, I most certainly am not. I need someone I can trust so I can be assured of no wrong-doings.’

  ‘Mrs Dean, this is a formal inquest. There are no wrong-doings that can take place.’

  She pauses and places both hands on the table, her thick strong fingers outstretched. ‘What are they saying of me in the papers?’

  ‘I … I do not know. I have not read them, of late.’

  ‘You are aware of the charges against me?’

  ‘Well, yes. Of course I know a little.’

  She nods slowly. ‘Does everyone suppose me guilty? For the terrible things that were shouted at Milton, I can only assume the very worst.’

  ‘No,’ I say hastily, and then retract slightly. ‘Well, of course I do not know for certain. But I am not your judge either on this earth or into the next world, and nor are the genera
l public.’

  ‘So you think I may be guilty?’ She pauses only a second. ‘But of course you do. Everyone must. The picture they’ll be painting, the way they treated me in Milton, how could you think anything else?’

  I am flustered by her directness. I know little of Milton and nothing of Mrs Dean, aside from the odd fragment. I should have made myself more ready, I can see that now. I am terribly underprepared for this. She, on the other hand, sits upon her chair as though having just asked if I would care for another scone and not whether I think she murdered babies.

  ‘I hold no view, madam, one way or the other. That is not for me to do.’

  ‘What is it for you to do, Reverend? Seek a confession?’

  ‘Do you wish to confess?’ Her eyes narrow. ‘Never.’

  The fire crackles in the grate. ‘The Lord forgives those who repent their sins.’

  ‘Then when I have sinned I shall seek His forgiveness.’

  ‘It is your only hope of salvation, Mrs Dean.’

  ‘I am innocent.’

  I rise and make my way towards the door, trying not to betray my disappointment.

  ‘Please, Reverend. The children.’

  ‘I cannot promise.’

  ‘And the inquest?’

  ‘Mrs Dean, I am sorry. I have a day full of engagements. I cannot possibly attend.’

  ‘I see,’ she says, looking away. ‘I apologise. I had no right to ask such a thing.’

  ‘It would not be best.’

  She nods. ‘I understand, understand perfectly. But it was pleasant to make your acquaintance, Reverend Lindsay. I’m unsure — being not accustomed to the way things work here, perhaps you may know better — if we will meet again.’

  I knock against the door to alert Mrs Bratby.