Philip Gooden: The Durham Deception

Helen was not content merely to sit at home, presiding over a house which was much smaller than her family home in Highbury while she waited for the almost inevitable children to appear. Instead, she was writing a ‘sensation’ novel, a three-decker along the lines of those penned by Mary Braddon. Helen’s novel involved an heiress who had been cheated out of her property and abandoned by her fiance because of the actions of a villain. The heroine, whose name was Louise Acton, was compelled to go to extreme lengths to regain her place in the world. Tom hadn’t been allowed to see any of this unfinished book, although he did hear from time to time that his wife had enjoyed ‘quite a good day’ at her desk or that she was reaching an awkward corner in the plot.

Recently, Helen had a short story published in Tinsley’s Magazine. It was her first appearance in print. William Tinsley himself wrote a gracious note to accompany the cheque for five pounds. The story was called ‘Treasure’ and Tom read it with admiration and a touch of amazement, hardly able to link the words on the page with the person who was sitting on the other side of the fireplace and pretending to read a book while covertly watching for his response.

Once inside number 24, they settled to a cold supper which Hetty had left for them. As she usually did on Sunday evenings, the maid was out visiting her sister who lived a few streets away. Tom and Helen’s mood was subdued, mostly because of what they had seen and heard at Tullis Street. More than once, Helen mentioned Mr Smight’s likely fate of a term in prison. After supper Tom tried to cheer her up. He mentioned Ethel Smight’s attempts at phrenology, the science of reading character by feeling the bumps on the skull. Helen reminded him that his bumps of Conscientiousness and Hope were well developed.

‘And Secretiveness,’ said Tom.

‘A useful trait in a lawyer.’

‘And don’t forget my bump of Amativeness. It is unique, according to Ethel Smight. You may feel it. Feel my bump of Amativeness.’

‘Where is mine, I wonder?’ said Helen.

Tom ran his fingers through Helen’s fair curls and one thing began to lead to another. They were suddenly disturbed by the sound of the key in the door and the return of Hetty from her sister’s. They giggled like children.

‘Later, oh amative husband,’ said Helen.

Tom and Helen Ansell had gone to visit Mr Smight at the suggestion of Helen’s mother. A week before the seance the couple had been having tea with Mrs Scott at the Highbury house, an occasional Sunday ritual. Although Tom no longer regarded his mother-in-law as a dragon-lady, which was his view of her before the marriage, and although he had even caused her to break into a smile once or twice, he didn’t enjoy these occasions much. Mrs Scott would quiz him about Scott, Lye amp; Mackenzie, in which she still felt a proprietorial interest, or she’d comment on Helen’s appetite — which was either too feeble or too eager — as a roundabout way of establishing whether there might soon be a happy announcement.

This time, though, it was obvious that there was something more on her mind than the law or babies. They’d hardly made a start on the anchovy toast and the ham sandwiches before Mrs Scott said, ‘Helen, do you remember your Aunt Julia?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘You were always her favourite when you were little.’

‘It is many years since I saw her.’

‘She particularly mentioned you in her last letter. She hopes that married life suits you. She never married, you know, although she was the oldest of us.’

As Mrs Scott talked about her family, with an uneaten ham sandwich in her hand, she was looking not at her daughter but at Tom, who asked himself where this conversation was heading. Helen sometimes mentioned her aunt Julia Howlett in a fond but distant way.

‘Married life suits us very well, mother,’ said Helen.

‘Your aunt will be glad to hear it when I next write to her. She was wondering when she might see the happy couple.’

‘Aunt Julia lives in Durham, doesn’t she?’

‘Yes. They have a fine cathedral there, I believe.’

‘I don’t think we have any plans to travel so far north at the moment,’ said Tom, sensing that Mrs Scott had an axe to grind and that it would shortly emerge from its hiding place.

As a sign of her seriousness Mrs Scott replaced the ham sandwich, untouched, on the plate. She said, ‘To be honest, my dears, I was wondering whether you could make plans to travel so far north. There is a railway line from London. I don’t think the city of Durham is inside the polar regions.’

There was a pause. Tom was still recovering from Mrs Scott’s attempt at making a joke when Helen said, ‘Mother, why don’t you tell us what’s on your mind? It has been plain ever since you mentioned Aunt Julia that there’s something bothering you.’

‘Why yes, there is.’

‘What is it?’

‘I do not know whether it is because your aunt is unmarried but she never seems to have acquired — how shall I put this? — she has never acquired an inoculation against men.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean that poor Julia never learned to close her ears to half — no, to three quarters — of what men are saying. Their stuff and nonsense if you’ll forgive me, Thomas. The poor thing has always had an open heart. An open heart and an open purse.’

Ah, thought Tom, here it comes. Money has been mentioned.

‘There was a missionary preacher a few years ago who was raising subscriptions for the unfortunate natives in some part of Africa, and your Aunt Julia was more than generous in giving him money,’ said Mrs Scott. ‘The fellow was no more a preacher than I am. He had one wife in Bradford and a second one in Newcastle, and probably other wives elsewhere. Certainly he had no intention of sending the money to Africa. He went to prison eventually, I am glad to say. It was reported in the papers. But Julia never saw her money again.’

‘And now another preacher has appeared?’

‘Not exactly. This time it is one of those spiritualists who claim to be in touch with the departed. A gentleman called Eustace Flask. Apparently he is making a name for himself in Yorkshire and Durham. And your aunt has fallen under his spell.’

‘You make him sound like a magician,’ said Tom.

‘I wish he were,’ said Mrs Scott. ‘At least magicians are honest. They make a virtue of their trickery.’

‘Where is the harm in Aunt Julia consulting a medium?’ said Helen. ‘Plenty of people visit mediums.’

‘No doubt; but they aren’t usually told to hand over their fortunes.’

Yes, here comes the money, thought Tom, helping himself to another piece of anchovy toast. Helen said, ‘I knew Aunt Julia was well-off but I didn’t know she had a fortune.’

‘I may exaggerate but not much. Julia has always been lucky with money even though she knows nothing about it. Indeed, I sometimes think she is lucky precisely because she is ignorant. Our father left each of us girls a small but adequate sum when he died but only Julia managed to make it grow by investing it in — oh I don’t know what — in the railways and mining stock and the like. And I believe she did no more than put a pin in a list in the newspaper! She puts her good fortune down to Providence. The result is that she is thoroughly comfortable and never has to lift a finger and I am glad for her because there is nothing worse than a crabbed old spinster living in poverty. But I almost wish she were poor because then she would not be preyed on by these tricksters!’

Mrs Scott took up the ham sandwich again and tore into it with as much vigour as if she were savaging the leg of a trickster. Helen glanced at Tom. Her glance said, this is serious. When her mother had swallowed the sandwich and regained a bit of control, she went on, ‘Now this Eustace Flask person has persuaded your Aunt Julia that he is in touch with the spirit of our late father, and that he is instructing Julia to treat Flask like a son. The son she might have had if she were married! The spirit says that Flask is to be provided with a very generous allowance. She has already given him a handful of small cheques. It is an outrage!’