So Mrs Holt’s solicitor wrote to the newspapers saying that she didn’t know anything about her husband’s business affairs, and didn’t know if he was alive or dead, but if he was alive, she begged him to surrender himself.’
‘Who was her solicitor?’ asked Mina.
‘Oh — I am not sure, a Mr Phipps, I think.’
Mina nodded. Not her own solicitor, she thought, Mr Ronald Phipps, who would have been too young in 1864, but presumably a member of that partnership.
‘Then Mr Sutherland’s solicitor — I don’t know his name — made a statement saying that he had told the truth about Mr Holt’s fate and firmly believed him to be dead.’
‘And has nothing been heard since?’
‘Nothing. Mrs Holt’s brother — he’s Mr Gordon Saltmire — you might have heard of him, he has the porcelain business in Hove — he engaged a private detective, but I never heard if anything came of that. And someone called ‘Clarity’ wrote to the Gazette to say that Mrs Holt was a highly respectable lady who would never tell a lie, and that Mr Holt’s spirit had sent messages to say that Mr Sutherland’s story was true.’
‘I assume Clarity’s testimony did not convince the insurance company to pay?’
‘No. But seven years later with no sign of Mr Holt, a court declared him dead, and Mrs Holt married a Mr Vardy. But of course, that is only what was printed in the newspapers,’ said Miss Cherry as she finished her story, and adjusted Mina’s pillows. She had a superior knack in that skill which made Mina feel instantly more comfortable.
Mina, trying her best to control her surging interest, reflected that since her mother had been in London with Enid during the last few weeks there had been no teatime gatherings of ladies in her home, where such exchanges as this would have been relished. Town gossip was a tawdry commodity but if well sifted it could yield something of value. ‘How very interesting,’ she said. ‘Is there more?’
Miss Cherry continued her pillow-smoothing which appeared to take rather longer than required, and Mina realised that she was thinking about how to respond. ‘Dr Hamid has ordered no excitement and no exertion,’ she said at last. ‘I think I have said too much.’
‘Then there is more,’ Mina whispered hopefully, trying not to overtax her voice. ‘Do tell. If the excitement should become overwhelming, I will let you know.’
Miss Cherry, who looked eager to tell her tale, despite the reservations imposed by her profession, drew up a chair beside the bed. ‘I have been told that there have been letters written to the newspapers very recently expressing ideas about what Mr Holt’s fate might have been, but these letters were never published, because it would have been unwise to do so.’
‘For fear of legal action,’ said Mina. She had no difficulty in imagining what those letters might have said.
‘Oh, there are a dozen different ideas about the true facts of the mystery. Much of it, I am sorry to say, is very unflattering to both Mr and Mrs Vardy.’
‘Since the lady has remarried, she must now accept that her husband is deceased,’ said Mina. Even as the sensible words left her lips Mina reminded herself that a second marriage where the first spouse was known to be alive was a circumstance that did occasionally trouble the courts. Without having met the lady in question she could not guess at her thoughts and motives.
‘Naturally, Mrs Vardy has not discussed her private affairs with me,’ added Miss Cherry, primly. ‘I am not, therefore betraying any confidences.’
‘It must be mortifying for her if she is aware that the whole town is discussing her situation.’
‘She cannot be unaware,’ said Miss Cherry.
A few moments passed before Mina understood the subtle meaning. ‘You mean that Mrs Vardy has been receiving letters, too?’
Miss Cherry made no reply.
‘And there must have been looks, and whispers.’ Mina was very familiar with the stares and comments she attracted in town due to her unusual appearance, her twisted, child-sized body and ungainly lurching walk. But this was the curiosity of strangers, not the repugnance of former friends. ‘And, I suspect, there have been fewer social calls and invitations.’
Still Miss Cherry said nothing.
‘Why does Mrs Vardy think I can advise her?’ Mina wondered. ‘Perhaps she wishes me to recommend a good medium. I do have correspondence of that sort.’
‘She visits a medium once a week and places great trust in her. It is a very select circle, and has existed for many years. The lady is quite old, and she has a remarkable machine, said to be the only one of its kind, that receives messages from beyond.’
Mina was about to comment but the effort of speech had been too much for her and she began to wheeze again. The air vanished from her lungs and the horrid cough came back to plague her.
Miss Cherry quickly leaned over and rubbed Mina’s back until she had recovered her breath, then poured a glass of water. ‘There now,’ she said as Mina took small rapid sips. ‘That is quite enough conversation for the present. Just rest.’
‘What of the boatman, Mr Sutherland?’ asked Mina — at least she tried to ask, but was prevented by a fresh fit of coughing which she attempted to stifle with a handkerchief.
At that moment, Rose entered with the poultice of boiled linseed spread on linen and Mina was obliged to submit to its application. Rose had a habit of making it a little hotter than necessary, presumably so it would last longer. Rose had to wait until Mina had coughed herself into a strained silence, then extracted the handkerchief from her grasp, inspected it and took it away for laundry.
‘How is mother?’ Mina gasped.
‘Mrs Scarletti wishes you to know that she cannot come to see you today as she is prostrated by anxiety and exhaustion, but she prays for you and Mrs Inskip three times a day,’ said Rose, tonelessly.
Mina tried to reply but unable to catch her breath, could only nod.
That night Mina’s temperature unexpectedly soared again. In a clammy shivery haze, the plight of the unfortunate Mrs Vardy and the mystery of Mr Holt remained on her mind. She did not want to slip away from the world without knowing the answer; or would death provide her with all the answers she craved?
Her brow was glazed with perspiration, carefully blotted by a kind hand that seemed to descend from Heaven with a cooling cloth. Still, she burned and ached, and as her temples began to throb a spectre hovered before her, the figure of a man without a face. Somehow, she knew that he was Mr Jasper Holt, not a ghost, but a vision created by her fever, tantalising, beckoning, inviting her to find him if she could.
Every time she sank into sleep, she thought she might never waken again. When she opened her eyes, faces hovered over her and shapes moved quietly about the room, anxious voices whispering in case she overheard their dire predictions. The loudest voice was that of her mother, who sat at the foot of the bed like a marble monument of a weeping angel over a grave, bemoaning the sufferings inflicted upon her by cruel fate.
The spout of a feeding cup was presented to her lips and cool water trickled down her throat. A cold pack descended on her forehead and strong fingertips grasped her wrist. She felt her pulse flutter. Mina closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on the important thing that was now taking all her slight energy — breathing.