Sarah Rayne - What Lies Beneath

‘Thank you very much,’ said the coroner approvingly.

A member of the local Exotic Plants Society testified to having seen Mr Poulter plucking bay leaves from the tree in her garden on several occasions. Pressed for more detail, she said, with reluctance, that it was without her permission, although she would certainly have given it if asked, and she had never bothered to confront him with it. A few bay leaves were neither here nor there. Well, yes, she said, with even more reluctance, she did have an oleander bush growing near the bay.

‘Could Mr Poulter have mistaken one for the other?’ asked the coroner.

‘Not if he was paying attention,’ said the Exotic Plants woman. ‘There’s a definite difference.’

‘But if he wasn’t paying attention? If, for instance, he was taking the leaves furtively, trying not to be seen. Looking up and down the road.’

‘I suppose it’s possible.’

The coroner supposed so, as well. He drew a little thumbnail sketch for the Court of Clem Poulter standing outside the Exotic Plants house, sliding one hand over the hedge to what he thought was the bay tree, his eyes on the road in case anyone came along, not paying sufficient attention to the leaves he was actually taking. He then directed the jury to bring in a verdict of Death by Misadventure, and himself added a rider to the effect that it was very dangerous to steal plants and experiment with them for cooking purposes. The body, he said, could now be released for interment.

Ella had gone to sit in the town hall’s little public gallery by that time – Veronica had saved her a seat. It was annoying to see that Veronica had had no qualms about wearing black, in fact add a lace veil and she would look like a Victorian widow, apart from the skirt, which was unsuitably short, and the heels, which were impractically high. Amy, surprisingly, had turned up in a black pinstripe trouser suit with a cream silk shirt. Ella had not even known Amy had brought such a garment with her, but she noticed how well the outfit suited her, even with her slightly outlandish looks, which were, of course, down to Amy’s mother, the girl Andrew had married entirely against Ella’s advice, and whom Ella had never much liked, although Derek always said she was lovely.

After the inquest Veronica wanted to go on to lunch. ‘Amy too, of course,’ she said. ‘We’ll have a bar meal at the Red Lion and a couple of drinks in Clem’s memory, dear old Clem.’

Ella thought she had better agree. You never knew who might be watching and taking mental note. She noticed Dr Malik on the edge of the crowd; for a moment it seemed as if Amy was waiting for him to approach her but he merely gave her a half-smile, nodded a brief, polite acknowledgement to Veronica and to Ella herself, and walked away.

‘I didn’t know you knew Jan,’ said Amy to Veronica.

‘We’re the merest acquaintances,’ said Veronica.

Ella was glad she had agreed to Veronica’s suggestion about lunch, because when they got to the Red Lion several others seemed to have had the same idea and the bar was full. Ella was greeted on all sides, with everyone wanting to commiserate and ask how on earth she must have felt, actually finding Clem’s body, poor old Clem, silly old bugger, wouldn’t you know he’d end up doing something like this? And how about a drink to speed him on his way?

Accepting the drinks, Ella felt herself surrounded by friends. It’s all right, she thought. No one suspects. I’ve buried the journals in the garden, right under the spot where Derek always has a bonfire for garden rubbish. She had done it the previous morning when Derek was at the office and Amy at the library, digging quite deeply, then shovelling earth over the notebooks. They would be mouldering away already, and later in the week she could prune the hedges and tell Derek they needed to have a bonfire at the weekend to burn the cuttings. It was not exactly the time to prune but that could not be helped. And even if anyone had seen her actually burying the incriminating diaries, they would have assumed she was simply tidying up that patch of garden.

I’ve got away with it, thought Ella. I’m free.

London, 1912

Serena was starting to feel as if she would never be free again. She was certainly beginning to think she would never feel well again.

When Dr Martlet next called, she was fretful, complaining about the sores on her face and neck.

‘It’s very distressing. Surely there’s something you can do? I’ve always looked after my complexion so carefully. As a girl they used to say my complexion was as good as Lillie Langtry’s.’

‘I remember how you looked as a girl,’ he said softly.

‘The porcelain look, it was called, and very fashionable. Not that one particularly wanted to be compared to the Langtry hussy, but still…’ Serena frowned. ‘Surely there’s something you can do? It’s only in the very early stages, isn’t it? I know you couldn’t help Julius, but he’d had it for years, only no one knew.’

‘Lady Cadence—’

‘I distinctly recall you saying if you had known, you could have helped him.’

‘Helped, but not cured,’ said Dr Martlet. ‘There’s no cure for syphilis.’

‘Then am I to end like my husband?’ She was aware that fear was making her voice hard and ugly.

‘I shall do everything I can for you.’

‘That,’ said Serena, fighting back mounting dread, ‘does not answer my question.’

‘The disease waxes and wanes,’ said Dr Martlet after a moment. ‘You know that – I explained it. That’s how Sir Julius was able to keep it from everyone. It can be quiescent for months, even years. I’m hopeful that will be the case for you.’

‘So am I,’ said Serena coldly.

‘When it’s at its height there are some remedies that can be tried,’ he said, speaking rather reluctantly. ‘And we can and will do so after the birth.’

The birth… The dark memory rushed back at Serena yet again. Julius’s face, twisted into the mask of a frightening stranger, forcing into her… Then sobbing like a bewildered child ashamed of itself.

‘I should prefer to try the remedies now,’ she said in the same cool voice.

‘It wouldn’t be advisable to try any of the treatments at the moment,’ said Martlet. ‘And the sores will disappear after a time.’

‘Only to return.’

‘Not necessarily. The difficulty is that almost all of the remedies we could try might harm the child.’

Harm the child . The memory clawed at Serena again and this time a dreadful idea etched itself onto her mind like poison.

She said sharply, ‘Dr Martlet, if you will not do what I’m asking, our association must end and I must find a physician prepared to help me.’

Martlet flinched as if he had been dealt a blow. With the air of a man yielding to intolerable pressure, he said, ‘Very well.’

‘You’ll arrange treatment?’

‘Yes. But there are only two possibilities. One is a fairly new drug they say is producing some good results with early syphilis. It’s been developed by a German scientist: Dr Ehrlich. But it contains arsenic, which is poisonous in the wrong quantities.’

‘When I was a girl people occasionally used weak solutions of arsenic to whiten their hands,’ said Serena. ‘So I have no especial fear of it. But I don’t think my husband would want me to take a German drug. He doesn’t trust the Kaiser, you know.’ Despite the extraordinary and macabre circumstances, there were still rules in marriage, and one of them was obedience to a husband’s wishes.

‘I’m not altogether sure I trust the Kaiser either,’ Martlet was saying. ‘To my mind this obsession he has with the idea of German Imperialism clouds his judgement. All those speeches about what he calls a place in the sun for Germany. Still, that doesn’t mean we should doubt Dr Ehrlich’s work.’