Priscilla Masters: Frozen Charlotte

‘What’s your name, love?’

The woman stopped staring at the floor and looked him straight in the eye. ‘Alice Sedgewick,’ she said. ‘My name is Alice Sedgewick. Mrs.’ Her accent was not what he had been expecting. It was middle class. Almost posh. And her voice was soft and polite. So how come she had wandered into the A &E department of the local hospital, carrying a long-dead child, Roberts thought? What was going on?

He wrote the name down, trying to make sense of the situation and failing completely.

‘Where do you live, Mrs Sedgewick?’

‘The Mount. Number 41.’

No sign of her being ‘barking’ so far.

Roberts looked up, his pen lifted off his pad. The Mount was a smart road, one of the nicest in a very smart town, a row of large Victorian detached and semi-detached houses. He looked again at the woman and noticed for the first time that although her trousers were paint-spattered and she was wearing a dark fleece, she was also wearing expensive-looking black patent leather shoes with a small, neat heel. And when she moved her arm he also noticed a gold watch that looked understated rather than flashy and whispered ‘money’ to him. It matched her voice, which was low and controlled. Not hysterical. She seemed detached. A bit unreal but not barking. All the time he talked he would be revising his judgement of her, moving up and down stops, changing as many times as the picture when you look through the end of a revolving kaleidoscope.

Roberts frowned. So she was not an escapee from the local psychiatric unit then. Or an ex-con from the prison but a local from a smart area in town. And yet somehow a long dead baby had come into her possession and instead of ringing the police, which would have been the normal thing to do, she had come here – to a hospital. What on earth could have been her motive in bringing the child here, nursing it for what could have been hours instead of handing him or her over to the nursing staff?

‘Can you tell me anything about…’ He let his gaze drift out of the window, towards the space where the curtains were tightly drawn round the cubicle, the security officer standing guard, arms akimbo, legs apart, like the coppers who stand outside 10 Downing Street. Alice Sedgewick followed his gaze and momentarily lost the blanked-out expression. Now she frowned and looked confused. Then she turned her gaze back at the gawky policeman and looked at him as though she had only now seen him properly. Her eyes drifted around the room, passed straight over Lucy Ramshaw and then her body gave a great shudder and appeared to actually recoil as though she had suddenly realized what it was she had been holding. She gave a little shriek of revulsion, as if she had woken up from a nightmare. PC Roberts witnessed the change open-mouthed; luckily for him that was the very moment when Sergeant Paul Talith arrived and took over.

To them all Talith’s bulky presence was reassuring. He had a quick word with Roberts who led him outside into the cubicle. With a gloved hand Talith twitched back the blanket and peered down. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said, his face contorted. ‘What the heck is that?’

Roberts shrugged and tried not to think too much about it. He certainly did not even attempt to answer the question.

Talith recovered himself. ‘Right. We can arrange for this -’ he couldn’t quite keep the loathing from his voice or face – ‘to be removed to the hospital mortuary and take it from there. We’ll inform the Coroner’s Officer first thing Monday morning. She’ll instruct us further. There’ll have to be a post-mortem, though God knows how long it’s been dead for. Looks to me like one of those Egyptian mummies. All shrivelled up and black.’

They left the cubicle. Talith glanced through the window at the woman who looked so very ordinary, sitting quietly, her hands folded on her lap. ‘Whatever she’s got to do with it I don’t know,’ he muttered, ‘but we’re going to have to question her down at the station, preferably with a solicitor present.’ He looked across at Gethin Roberts. ‘She’s married?’

‘I think so. She’s wearing a wedding band.’

‘Better wake her husband up and tell him then.’ Talith grinned. ‘He’s in for a shock.’

They were both wondering the same thing. Was it her child? His child? What was the story?

‘Perhaps she had it years ago,’ Roberts mused, ‘and because she didn’t want her family to find out she buried it.’

‘Then dug it up, Roberts?’ Talith’s voice was mocking. ‘Why? Why now?’

‘I don’t know.’

They still didn’t enter Sister’s Office but stood outside, talking quietly. ‘It’s just a baby,’ Talith said. ‘Probably a newborn. Why bring it here?’ he mused. ‘Tonight? Look at the state of that thing. It’s been dead for years. Kept somewhere. Not buried, I don’t think. More like kept somewhere. What was the point of bringing it to a hospital? What did she think they were going to do?’

Gethin Roberts shrugged. ‘It’s where you would naturally go. Or perhaps…’ he ventured, then found inspiration from somewhere. ‘Sanctuary?’

Talith sighed. ‘Well, whatever, it’s going to be a long night. I’d better go in and talk to her.’

He went into the room. Lucy Ramshaw was sitting still, her face as white as chalk. Talith touched her shoulder. ‘You’d best go home, love,’ he said kindly. ‘You look knackered. We’ll take a statement from you some other time. All right?’

She looked up and nodded.

‘Do you want someone to drive you or shall we get your bloke to come and pick you up?’

She gave a weak smile. ‘No. It’s OK. Really. I’ll be all right. Better in the fresh air. Rob’s probably had a drink or two. I don’t want to drag him out at this time of night. I’ll drive myself.’

‘All right, love. We’ll be in touch.’

Paul Talith sat himself down opposite Alice Sedgewick and introduced himself. ‘Mrs Sedgewick,’ he said, ‘we’re going to have to question you down at the station about this baby you brought in, I’m afraid.’

She nodded, even gave him a faint smile, subtly condescending. ‘That’s all right,’ she said.

The words ‘gracious’ and ‘a lady’ came into Paul Talith’s mind. He studied her carefully. Mrs Sedgewick seemed well mannered, contained and old-fashioned. It seemed appropriate to use these conservative words about her.

‘We’ll just wait for the police surgeon to make sure you’re in a fit state to take in, Mrs Sedgewick.’ Talith deliberately avoided the use of the terrible word ‘detain’. It might send her back over the edge. ‘Is there anyone else – family – you’d like us to contact? They might be worried about you. It’s late and it’s a nasty night.’

Alice simply shook her head.

They waited in awkward silence until Dr Delyth Fontaine appeared. A large, untidy woman with straggly, greying hair, she cared little for her appearance. All her energy was focussed on her career as a police surgeon (or Forensic Medical Examiner, as they were now called), and the smallholding she had to the south of the town where she bred Torddu sheep, a rare Welsh mountain breed. Both Gethin Roberts and Sergeant Talith were relieved that it was she who was on duty tonight. Her no-nonsense approach to her work was exactly what they needed in this situation. She gave them each a broad smile. ‘Nice of you to drag me out on such a snowy night.’

They didn’t respond. They knew she didn’t mind really. ‘I suppose,’ she said, ‘I’d better take a peek at the infant first?’

They led her into the cubicle. Slipping on a glove she took a swift glance. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Looks like a neonate. A newborn,’ she explained to the two police officers. ‘It’s been dead for a number of years. I can’t say how many but at a guess more than five. I won’t undress it,’ she said. ‘There’s no point. It’ll be better if the clothing is removed at the post-mortem.’