Priscilla Masters - Frozen Charlotte

Acantha Palk was hardly breathing as she absorbed Martha’s words. ‘It was explained in the note, wasn’t it? You were supposed to be her very best friend, Mrs Palk. Practically the only friend she had.’ She fixed her gaze on the woman. ‘That was why she addressed the note to you, wasn’t it?’

Acantha Palk was beginning to visibly wilt and Martha ploughed on mercilessly. ‘I suggest if you have the letter with you, you hand it over now. And if you do not have it you arrange for it to be delivered to me at the earliest possible opportunity.’ She paused. Acantha’s eyes were practically boiling with rage. ‘As you are a solicitor, Mrs Palk, you probably know that it is an offence to suppress any information which is pertinent to an unexpected, unexplained. suspicious death. My powers and my position demand that you put this information into my hand as soon as possible or I shall have to accuse you of concealment and inform the police.’

After a short, tight-lipped pause Acantha Palk spoke. ‘How did you know?’ she asked. ‘How could you possibly have known that Alice left a note? Suicides don’t always.’

‘People work in certain predictable ways,’ Martha responded. ‘I did not believe that Alice Sedgewick would elect to leave this world without explaining to her family why she was doing it.’

Acantha Palk stared.

‘It was addressed to you wasn’t it?’

Acantha Palk nodded.

‘Do you have it with you?’

‘No.’

‘Where is it?’

‘At home.’

‘Did you tell Mr Sedgewick that his wife had, in fact, left a suicide note?’

Acantha Palk nodded. ‘It was he who told me to destroy it.’

‘Aaah,’ Martha said.

The vaguest, faintest smile crossed Acantha Palk’s face. ‘Much as it would have been more convenient and better for everybody if the note was burnt, as a solicitor, it went against the grain to destroy evidence.’

‘Alice Sedgewick is dead,’ Martha said, leaning forward. ‘These were her last words. It was her explanation, sent to you because she trusted you. You could not betray that trust. You could not deny your friend this last, plaintive voice, could you? Or her relatives the satisfaction of knowing why?’

‘No. Not really.’

‘Then would you mind?’

Half an hour later Martha had read through the letter. And part of the story unfolded.

Dear Canthie,

By the time you read this I will be dead but I had to set the slate right by you. I want you to speak to Gregory, to explain. He has been such a devoted son, loving and caring as much as he could when his father was so – well – difficult. As you know Aaron is the stronger of us two and can be a little… just a little, overbearing.

My behaviour must have seemed inexplicable to you as perhaps other things might have struck you in the past. But you have said nothing. Ten years ago, I unexpectedly found that I was pregnant. I was very confused. Gregory and Rosie were grown up. I had not expected to have another child so late in life. I was in my forties. Then as I made certain that I was not mistaken I was thrilled. Absolutely ecstatic, if you want to know. It seemed like a gift. A great gift. From above. I had loved being a mother and missed my children, in particular when Gregory left home. I hated the boarding-school years. This child, I vowed, I would keep close to me. But Aaron put all sorts of objections in my way. He worried the child would be deformed. You know how he likes things his way and hates what he sees as imperfections. In fact he was livid that I was pregnant. At first he accused me of being simply careless but as I got more excited about the child he started accusing me firstly of having deliberately tried to get pregnant and then that it was not his child but a lover’s. Acantha, I never had a lover. It was undoubtedly his child. But he would not accept it. He insisted. Absolutely insisted that I have an abortion. I tried everything to persuade him that it was our child, pointed out how close he was, in particular, to Rosie and that this could perhaps be a second daughter but he became violent and said, quite cruelly, that it might be another son. I am so sorry and guilty now. When I went to the doctor and said I did not want this child, I was lying. Since then I have lived with the consequences of that lie. That child has stayed in my mind ever since. I called her Poppy. Every day I hear her cry. I see her face. I nurse her. I play with her. Aaron thought if we moved house it would make me forget. But I made a room for her in the new place and Aaron finally lost his temper. He made an appointment for me to see a psychiatrist and told him I was mad. I wanted to tell Dr Richmond but Aaron sat in with me and I could say nothing of the truth. Dr Richmond diagnosed me with depression. So I allowed myself to be drugged and treated for an illness I did not have. I was simply grieving for my lost daughter. Acantha, you must have wondered why I decorated a bedroom in children’s wallpaper. I did it for Poppy. I bought her clothes, a cot, blankets, toys.

When I found the baby in the attic I believed it was her, that somehow she had not been aborted but had lived and died – somewhere. I took the old blanket away from her. I nursed her. I wrapped her in a new blanket and took her back to the hospital so she would not haunt me any more. But I was wrong. She has. She has not left me. Poppy is still here with me and now we must go together. Please explain to Gregory. Tell him I will miss my visits to him. Thank him for the happiness he has given me. Thank you, dear friend, for all you’ve done. Give my love to my family. Tell Aaron I am with Poppy. One last wish: I wish to be cremated and my ashes scattered somewhere near the hospital. I believe they have a garden there for such purposes. Goodbye, my darling. I am happy.

Martha looked up. ‘You couldn’t have suppressed this,’ she said. ‘Not her last words to her son. Her dying wishes.’

‘Well, I didn’t, did I?’

There was no remorse coming from Mrs Palk. She was on the defensive. Martha leaned forward. ‘I shall put this letter in the hands of the police,’ she said. ‘It’s up to them whether they charge you. It will find its way to Gregory Sedgewick. I think,’ she said, fingering the sheet of paper, ‘that it’s one of the most poignant notes I’ve ever read.’

As soon as Acantha Palk had left, Martha rang Alex Randall. ‘I have something for you,’ she said, deliberately not telling him what it was. ‘I was wondering whether to bring it over.’ She looked out of her window. The winter sunshine had set the snow sparkling. She felt a yearning to be out there, in the brightness and the cold.

‘Does it help us with our case?’

‘I think it might.’

‘What is it?’

She laughed. ‘Don’t deny me my moment of drama, Alex,’ she said. ‘You’ll find out in fifteen minutes.’

Alex was in his office when she arrived. Without a word she handed him the note. He read it through and she watched his expression change from pity to sorrow, through grief, finally landing at anger. He looked up. ‘Are you going to tell me where you got this from?’

‘Have a guess,’ she teased.

He steepled his fingers together and met her eyes. ‘Mrs Palk,’ he suggested.

She nodded.

‘And I would think,’ he added, ‘that it was probably Aaron Sedgewick who asked her to-’

‘Destroy it,’ she finished for him. ‘He wouldn’t think of anyone but himself. He would have read it through and realized that it accused him, threw him in a bad light. So…’

Alex glanced down at the sheet of paper. ‘I can see why.’

‘You might see why, Alex, but I take a very dim view of this.’

‘But Mrs Palk didn’t destroy it, did she?’