The Victory Garden(79)
“And how easy to add a little arsenic to it,” the policeman said. “You are to remain here until further notice. Do not think of running away, because that would only make it worse for you.”
I am all a-tremble. I cannot think where or why Maria T. obtained arsenic. I can only think that she planned to end her own life, and mixed the arsenic with the tonic to swallow it. Or . . . and my blood now runs cold . . . she had realized the truth that her husband and I were falling in love. She decided to end her own life and punish the two of us at the same time. I saw how that was all too possible. But then a third thought, most disturbing of all, came to me. Surely it wasn’t possible that Mr T. had administered the arsenic to his wife so that he could be together with me? This I could not believe. He was a man of honour, I would swear to it.
But whatever the circumstances, the outlook is bleak for me. I am so tempted to write to my father and beg for his help. He is a man of influence, but far away in the north of England. And he may be of the opinion that anything that befalls me since disobeying him and eloping with an unsuitable man is my own fault, and I must face the consequences. But he would not let his only daughter hang, would he?
As I write the word “hang,” I feel a chill running down my spine. Is my life to be ended because of a vengeful woman? A woman whose mental state was clearly not stable?
And there was one more entry.
To anyone who reads this: I am innocent. Will nobody come to my aid? The black carriage has drawn up outside. They have come with a warrant for my arrest . . . on a charge of the wilful murder of Maria Tinsley. May God have mercy on my soul.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Emily could not sleep that night. She still felt guilty that she had read Susan’s diary, and yet the last page showed that Susan wanted it to be read. She wanted someone to come to her rescue. But who could have done so? Mr T. would presumably also have been a suspect regarding his wife’s death. He could not have vouched for Susan’s innocence. Then the awful truth struck her. The villagers had said there were two murders. One was the woman whom Lady Charlton thought had not died, but had run off with a gypsy. And the other . . . the witch who was hanged.
“It’s my own fault,” she said out loud. “I should never have read her diary. Now I’ll never be able to get her out of my mind.”
The next morning, she looked at her notes and the dried herbs on the table. I should stop this nonsense right away, she thought. Maybe the villagers are right and the cottage is cursed. She dressed hurriedly, wrapped a shawl around herself and went outside. Then she wielded the pruning shears and cut back all the plants in her little garden until there were just bare stalks showing. “No more,” she said. She didn’t know why she had been so attracted by the stupid notion of taking over as the herb wife, the wise woman. And the notion that she was somehow fated to come here and fulfil the role now terrified her. Those women had all met bad ends. That was what they said in the village. She was tempted to take Lady Charlton up on her offer and move into the big house right away, but the thought of Mrs Trelawney shadowing her, looking at her with those spiteful little eyes, was not appealing.
As she re-entered the cottage through the back door, she heard a letter land on the front doormat. Shadow rushed to examine it, decided it wasn’t edible and walked away again. Emily picked it up and saw the armed forces postage stamp on it. From Clarissa!
My dear, dear friend,
I was so shocked and sorry to read your sad news. And even more shocked at the callous and cruel behaviour of your parents. To reject their only daughter like that when you were in such dire need of love and nurturing. Well, rest assured that I shall not turn you away in your hour of need. As soon as I come home—and it should be only a matter of weeks now, they are saying—I aim to find a job nursing in a proper hospital. I may have to do some studying or an apprenticeship, but I feel that I am well qualified, and they would be lucky to get me! (You see, I never did lack confidence, did I?)
And when I am settled, I shall rent a little house nearby, and you shall come to live with me, and together we will raise little Humphrey or Hortense or whatever you choose to call him/her. Won’t that be fun? An adoring auntie on hand!
Emily put down the letter, as she felt herself about to cry. Finally, a door had opened for her—someone did care about her. She could look forward to plans for her future. She did not have to stay in this place. She was surprised at the swift pang of regret that she felt. She liked it here. She enjoyed the company of Lady Charlton and the women in the village. At least, she had liked it here, until she had discovered the truth about Susan Olgilvy.
“No more herbal nonsense,” she said out loud, making the cat look up from washing himself in front of the fire. She went out to check on her newly planted vegetables, making sure the rabbits had not found a way under the bird netting, then she went on up to the house. Lady Charlton had just come downstairs after breakfast in bed and looked surprised to see her.
“To what do we owe this honour?” she said.
Emily smiled. “I think I’ve done all I can in the kitchen garden. I’ve come to see if you want to work on that cataloguing you spoke about.”
The old woman’s face broke into a smile. “Splendid. Let’s get started, shall we? Should we tackle the library or the artefacts first?”
“Whichever you prefer.”
“Then I think the library presents an easier task. At least we can work our way along shelves. Let me find paper in my husband’s study . . .” Emily followed her along the hallway. She noticed the house felt cold and damp apart from in that one sitting room.