Priscilla Masters: Frozen Charlotte

‘Good luck,’ she said. She didn’t dare add, So what now?

Interpol agreed to help search for Celestyna and using passport controls and work permits they finally found her living in a small town just north of Krakow. Initially Alex rang her up. Her English was good but she wanted nothing to do with what had been an unhappy episode in her life. ‘They told me the child would not live,’ she said, ‘that it’s mouth was somehow not normal and it would not be able to feed. They told me this.’

Who knew what the truth was.

‘I am married now with a child of my own. My husband knows nothing of my past or of my baby who died.’

‘He was born alive?’

‘With a weak cry. I knew at once that something was wrong.’

Alex related the conversation back to Martha. ‘I feel I should speak to her myself,’ she said.

Celestyna was a little more amenable to Martha once she had explained who she was and why she was ringing.

‘We’ll be holding an inquest on your son.’

‘I would prefer not to attend,’ Celestyna said quickly. ‘I do not want to return to England, ever. I did not like it there – or the people.’

‘That’s all right,’ Martha said. ‘You do not have to attend but sometimes people want to. Would you like to give your child a name rather than the inquest be held on an anonymous infant?’

Celestyna was horrified. ‘No,’ she said. ‘It will make him a real person. Please no.’

‘Did you have an idea of a name?’

‘Of course not,’ Celestyna said bluntly. ‘He could never have been my child. There was no point in my thinking of a name for him.’

‘I would like to call him something,’ Martha said. ‘What is the name of your father?’

‘Martyn,’ the girl said. ‘We spell it with a “y” in Polish.’

‘Then he shall be called Martyn Zawadzki.’

It was three weeks later that Alex arrived at her office to talk. The inquest on Alice Sedgewick had been held the week before. Martha had returned a verdict of suicide and had read out the letter. It had been her revenge on Aaron Sedgewick. She had enjoyed watching him squirm right through the slow, deliberate reading which Jericho Palfreyman had elected to do. Somehow his ponderous voice, combined with his lank grey locks had seemed appropriately grave.

And though the forensic evidence was not strong enough to return anything but an open verdict the inquest was held on Martyn Zawadzki and in a rare gesture of generosity Aaron Sedgewick offered to have the baby cremated with his wife. Maisie Stokes gave her evidence. They would have struck her off the midwives’ register but she had long since retired so Martha merely admonished her.

‘So, Alex.’ Martha wondered what had brought him to her office on this clear, cold February day. ‘I thought you’d want to know,’ he said, ‘The Birmingham police have found out something about the Isaacs.’

‘Ah,’ Martha said wisely.

‘It’s to do with inheritance, as you thought. Mrs Isaac had a large and very valuable collection of Chinese porcelain. We looked into her old house contents insurance at The Mount. The collection was worth in excess of half a million pounds.’

‘Good gracious,’ Martha said.

‘The money they gave to the charlady was, in fact, hush money,’ Alex said. ‘When Mrs Isaac’s estate was valued for probate-’

‘It had disappeared?’

‘Correct.’

‘What happened to it?’

‘It was sold – for cash – to a Dutch dealer. Isaac has been busily laundering the money ever since, with little buys here and there.’

Martha nodded.

‘We’ve made a charge against them and the Inland Revenue will be sending them a not-so-small bill,’ Alex said with satisfaction. ‘They’re lucky to have escaped prosecution. Inland Revenue can be quite ruthless at pursuing their debtors.’

‘And the Godfreys?’

‘It’s going to be difficult to know what charge we can make stick without a statement from either Maisie Stokes or Miss Zawadzki. And she’s not going to play ball, I can promise you. She wants nothing to do with us.’ He paused. ‘Which would have left us with concealment of a body except…’

She waited.

‘Their present maid, Graciela, is four months pregnant. They were trying the same thing again.’

Martha frowned. ‘There’s been quite a gap.’

‘After what happened they didn’t dare try anything again in the UK so they lay low in Spain. It’s more difficult now to recruit a surrogate mother via the Internet. There are stops put on it so they had to wait for a suitable Spanish girl, someone from the villages.’

‘And now?’

‘Graciela seems to want to go through with it,’ Alex said. ‘It isn’t illegal for money to change hands along with a child. Their suitability as parents might be called into question but as Vince Godfrey is the biological father it rather looks as though the child might end up with them anyway. They’re desperate to have a child, Martha.’

‘Desperate people. Desperate measures.’

‘Quite.’

He’d finished all he had to say but DI Alex Randall didn’t move. He smiled at Martha. ‘This isn’t the first time you’ve helped me out,’ he said. ‘I’m really grateful.’

‘My pleasure.’

She had thought he might say more but he didn’t. He simply smiled, shook her hand and left.

She sat for a minute or two then picked up the telephone. Perhaps it was time she had a little bit of fun in her life. Being a coroner was interesting. As was being a mother but her life was slipping away all too fast. No one is more aware of the swift flow of the sands of time than a coroner. She’d been promised dinner. Why not?

She dialled the number and was soon connected.

When I was a child I inherited my grandmother’s doll’s house. Called Nora’s Villa, dated 1894, my usual Saturday job was to clean and tidy it out. It was fully furnished with some lovely furniture and had a lead fireplace, even an ebony piano. My aunt had had it before me but had only sons so I inherited it. Coincidentally I too had sons so it went to my nieces, Lucinda and Alicia.

In the house were porcelain dolls. Two of these I felt particularly sorry for. Porcelain, made from one piece, unable to move either their legs or their arms. These dolls, I was to learn, are known as Frozen Charlottes. As always, a story leads to yet another story. Surfing the Internet, I discovered that Frozen Charlottes are named after Fair Charlotte, the unwise heroine of a poem by Seba Smith, a Maine humorist (1792-1868). Fair Charlotte, setting out for a New Year’s Eve Ball elected to travel in a silken cloak. By the time she reached the ball she was frozen solid! A warning to young ladies who put glamour ahead of warmth on snowy nights.

We’ve all done it!