Grandmother and the Priests (49 page)

“I see,” said the priest, severely. “Entirely too much protecting was going on in that house, and so inevitably it led to tragedy. Mr. Gould, did you, on that day, stop loving your wife?”

The squire looked at him directly. “I had stopped loving Agnes within six months after we were married. Had she not been expecting Geoffrey I’d have left her then. But there was my child to consider — and with such a mother. Then I was so happy over Geoffrey, when he was born, that I decided it was my duty, as a good Catholic husband and father, to try to reform Agnes, to lead her away from her violent moods and unpredictable angers and rages. For a time she did seem more kind and more content. I promised her a visit to the Continent when she had fully recovered from Geoffrey’s birth. Then, she became pregnant with Elsa. She could not forgive me, though what she thought I should have done I do not know.” The squire sighed. He glanced at his silently weeping wife. “These are not things a gentleman discusses in the presence of a lady, but you would not go away, Florence.”

“I wondered how you could — possibly look at her!” said Florence, in a sick tone. “I often wondered, all through those years. For I knew all about Agnes by that time; that is why I visited so often. I thought I’d help you protect the children.”

“Well. Well,” said the squire, speaking in dead sounds. He tried to bring life back to his voice. “Florence and I were worried about Eric. We talked all day about calling the doctor, and we also talked of the scandal. Our doctor would have been outraged. He might even have called the police. He was that kind of a martinet. We had the other two children to think of, and even Agnes, herself. And, as the day went on, Eric did appear to improve, didn’t he, Florence?”

“Yes. A little,” said his wife. “We decided to wait until the next day to see if Eric would continue to improve or get worse. We didn’t realize — ”

“I’m sure,” said the priest, wryly, “that those words are heard oftener in hell than any other. ‘We didn’t realize.’ But please continue.”

“You can imagine how agitated and numb we were, Father. We tried to conceal everything from the servants, too. We wanted to protect Agnes’ name and dignity, and now I see it was all useless. They knew all the time.

“Agnes’ nurse, Rose Hennessey, was a good nurse, though she was quite young. It was her evening off; she had friends farther in town. She worked very hard, for Agnes could be trying, to say the least. Now, she testified that before leaving she said to me — Florence and I were discussing Eric’s condition in the morning-room — that she had prepared Mrs. Gould’s medicine and that I should give it to her at midnight I, myself, remember only that she said, ‘Please give Mrs. Gould her medicine at midnight.’ Florence does not recall anything else, either. We were too disturbed to listen fully.”

The priest sat and thought. Then he said, “Was it customary for Rose to prepare your wife’s medicine before she left on her evening off?”

The squire’s hands clenched on his cane. “Before God,” he said, with deep quietness, “I don’t remember. I didn’t remember then, either. That is why I don’t know — Rose said it was customary, to save me the bother, and to be sure that the exact dosage, three drops, had been measured out. But, I don’t remember! You must believe me. I don’t remember. The last twenty-four hours had wiped all thought for anyone but Eric out of my mind.

“And so, at midnight, I went into my wife’s room. She was more than half asleep. The glass, partly filled with water, was on her bedside table. I measured drops of the colorless medicine into the water and woke her up. She was in a very bad temper. She said she didn’t need my ministrations; she kept up a babble of talk, even in her half-dozing state. She repeated, over and over, that she wished she had never married me, and that she had no children. She called me — various names. She ordered me from the room. I had come for only one purpose, she said.” The squire’s pale face flushed. “I left. And that is all, before God. But I cannot understand how a double dose could have killed her. The medicine was potent, yes. The doctors of the autopsy said she had died of much more, that a double dose might have caused her severe trouble but it would not have killed her. Florence! What is it?”

For Florence was sitting upright in her chair, with a look of profound dread and horror on her face. “Geoffrey!” she cried. “Oh, dear God, Geoffrey! I killed her!”

“No!” said her husband. He tried to pull her head to his shoulder, but she resisted him and drew away from him.

“Let Mrs. Gould tell her story,” said the priest, in a sharp, loud voice. But his heart was hammering. The husband — he was protected by double jeopardy. But his wife was not.

“I never read the newspapers! I couldn’t bear to!” said Florence, in a harsh and suffering voice. “And I only remember what you told me, yourself, that you had given Agnes her medicine. I didn’t think you had added anything to it; you never told me!”

“Florence, my dear. Of course you didn’t read the newspapers, and afterwards we never talked of the matter again. What is wrong?”

Florence turned desperately to the priest. “You must believe me! I didn’t read the newspapers! And, like Geoffrey, I thought Rose had merely said, ‘Please give Mrs. Gould her medicine at midnight.’ You must believe me! The girl was in a hurry. She testified that she had prepared the medicine and that she had told us. I don’t think she told us she had. I don’t think, now, that she had ever done so before! Geoffrey,” and now she turned to her husband, “we didn’t remember that she had ever done so, and that is why — After all, the girl had to protect herself, and it is possible that she actually thought she had prepared previous doses on her evening off. I don’t know! Geoffrey, Geoffrey, you
must
let me speak!”

“Florence, you don’t know what this means — ”

“There are no eavesdroppers here,” said the priest. “And what you are telling me will never be revealed by me, unless with your permission. Please go on, Mrs. Gould. There is something you want to tell me.”

‘Yes!” Florence’s eyes were distended and feverish. “I always brought Agnes her nine o’clock hot milk, when the nurse was off. It soothed her, and helped to make her sleep. As Geoffrey says, she was in a bad temper, after being so gay all through the day. She was drowsing, but she half sat up to drink the milk. I saw the partly filled glass of water on her bedside, and the medicine, and I — I measured out three drops and put them in the water. She didn’t see me. She just complained and sipped, and sighed and moaned. I hardly listened. She abused Geoffrey frightfully, and I tried not to hear. Then I took away her milk glass and told her that Geoffrey would be in at midnight to see that she was awake and to see that she took her medicine.” Florence stopped on a hard, dry sob.

“Did you tell her, Mrs. Gould, that the drops were already in her glass?”

“Yes! I never came with Geoffrey at midnight to see Agnes. That was their time alone together. I said, ‘Agnes, the medicine is ready, and good night, my dear.’ Then I left the room. She did not acknowledge that she had heard me, and didn’t answer me. She was in such a tantrum. I
thought
she had heard! But now I know she had not. Or, she had forgotten in her half-drugged state. Oh, my God, Father! I killed her!”

“Florence!”

The priest held up his hand. “Please wait,” he said. There was something stirring in his mind, something vague. “Mr. Gould, you’ve told me that when you went into your wife’s room, at midnight, she told you she didn’t need your ministrations. While she was upbraiding you, she didn’t notice that you had prepared her drops. Is that correct?”

“Yes. She was more than half asleep when I went in. I had trouble in arousing her.” The squire’s eyes had begun to brighten, pleadingly, hopefully.

“Did you actually see her take her medicine?”

There was silence in the room, taut, alert. The squire and his wife stared at the priest. Then the squire said, slowly, “No, I did not. Strange, I didn’t remember, until now, that I had not seen her take it. I only said I had put the drops into her glass. I was not asked if I had actually seen her drink the water! My own lawyers did not ask; neither did the Crown Prosecutor. Nor did the judge. It was assumed, by me, my lawyers, the prosecutor, the judge, that she had drunk it while I was still there. If I had thought — but the things she had said to me, vile things, shut out any conjecture, in my own mind, as to whether or not I had seen her take the draught. I remember that when I was testifying my mind was preoccupied with despair, wondering about my children, and the disgrace, and asking myself how they would survive if I were — hanged. I can see why I was not asked; I had said I prepared the medicine and then had wakened my wife to take it.”

“Assumptions,” said the priest, “have caused a lot of trouble in this world, and probably many hangings.”

But the squire went on, as if he had not heard: “If she hadn’t been so abusive, if what she had said had not been so unjust and so cruel, I’d have stayed there until she drank that potion. But she ordered me out. She said she didn’t need my ministrations, and that she was capable enough, even though I wished her dead, to take excellent care of herself.”

“Aha!” said the priest, rising in his excitement. “Is that exactly what she said?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Mrs. Gould, did you tell Mr. Gould that you had prepared the drops yourself?”

Florence’s face went gray with concentration. “I told Geoffrey to give his wife her medicine at midnight, and that there was a glass waiting on her table.”

“But you did not say you had put drops in yourself, those very words?”

She stared at him, blankly. “Words, words?” she murmured. “No. No. I only said the glass was waiting.” She turned to her husband. “Is that what I said?”

“Yes, my darling,” he said. Then he hesitated, and they both waited. “Frankly,” said the squire, “I wasn’t thinking of my wife at all. I hardly heard you, Florence. Only dimly do I remember that you mentioned the medicine Agnes would be needing at midnight and that there was a glass waiting. If you had not mentioned it now I should not have remembered at all.”

The priest walked up and down the room. “Mr. Gould, did your wife say anything more, at all, after she had said she didn’t need your ministrations, and could take care of herself, and after she had abused you?”

“Help me,” prayed the squire, almost inaudibly. He shut his eyes again, and concentrated. “She only said she would take the medicine when she wished.” His eyes flew open. He half rose from his chair. “I didn’t remember that, either! Until now!”

The priest sat down and smiled at the two extremely agitated people before him.

“Was she quite awake after she began abusing you, Mr. Gould?”

“A little later, yes. I was alarmed. She seemed so — extreme. In fact, I wondered, as I left the room, if I should suggest to her that she take a dose of her mild sedative. She threw a book she had been reading earlier in the day at me; it caught me on the shoulder. She shouted at me. I closed the door, and I could hear her anger even when I went down the corridor.”

The priest smiled even wider. “She did not see you prepare her medicine; she did not know you had done so. She thought she had driven you off before you had the opportunity. You awoke her. She had no way of knowing that while she was still asleep you had measured out the drops. Rose had not told her that she had prepared the mixture; the lady was half asleep when Rose left. Rose told you, or she did not tell you, that the mixture was ready. She probably doesn’t know for sure, herself, but she has possibly put it out of her mind.

“Mrs. Gould, I have heard that you were questioned. Did you tell the authorities — you were not asked to testify in court? — that you had put those drops into Mrs. Gould’s waiting glass of water?”

“No. I was terribly upset, as you can imagine, Father. I didn’t even think of it! It left my mind completely until today, when you questioned us. They never asked me if I had prepared any medicine, myself.” The young woman spoke with quiet vehemence and even passion.

“And you never testified in court?”

“No. The Inspector from Scotland Yard talked to me in the house. Then, I heard later I had been under some suspicion, but if so I was never informed directly by the Inspector. He knew my aunt very well; he had known my uncle. In fact, I had seen him often when I was a child, when I was living in my aunt and uncle’s house after my parents died.”

The priest could understand. The Inspector had known the girl from childhood; he had known her character well. He could not believe that she had deliberately destroyed another woman’s life.

Father Shayne said, “Before I pass my opinion, which I believe explains everything, I should like to ask you, Mr. Gould, if you were in love with your present wife before your wife died?”

The dark and elegant face flushed. “Yes. I was. I admit it.”

“Geoffrey!” exclaimed Florence, and now her face flared into beautiful light. “You never told me! I thought you had learned to love me after Agnes died!”

He put his hand over hers. She was trembling. “My dear, I was a Catholic husband and father, and I loved my God and tried to obey His law. You were a young woman in my house, loving my children, and having affection for my wife. I could not tell you. I fought it. I struggled with it, and prayed over it. I knew it was wrong, but I could not help myself. I knew that the only thing I could do was never to tell you. I wanted not to love you; I used all my will to prevent you from knowing. I willed not to love you, all through those years, and I never let you know.”

“You never let me know,” said Florence, delighted and marveling. “Well, my dear, I loved you, too. But I didn’t tell you, either. I knew what you were, honorable and good. If I had told you, before Agnes had died, you would have asked me never to come again. Would you not have?”

“I should have asked you never to come again, for both our sakes.”

The squire turned to the priest. “I told Father Tom that I had loved Florence for years, for at least from the time I had stopped caring about Agnes. I told him I had never told Florence. He did not believe me. He did not believe anything. He was certain that either Florence or I had killed my wife, for adulterous reasons and because we wished to be married. Before God, Father, that is not true.”

The priest laughed a little. “You are wrong. You and your lady, Mr. Gould, did kill your wife. So did Rose Hennessey, probably. Technically, therefore, the three of you are guilty of murder.”

Florence made a small dim sound and put her gloved hands over her mouth. Her lovely gray eyes stared wretchedly at the priest. The squire started.

“And, technically, my friends, the late Mrs. Gould committed suicide. After you had left, sir, she prepared her own drops, and drank all four doses.

“But, the murder and the suicide were done unknown to any of you. You did not will the murder; you did not know you were committing murder; your consciences are clean of any desire to murder. The late Mrs. Gould committed suicide, without her will and without her knowledge, just as you had killed her without your will and your knowledge.

“You, Mr. Gould, could not help loving your present wife. But you fought it, prayed against it, willed against it. Therefore, you are not guilty of adultery even in your heart. God takes note of intention.

“Now, I should like to know what you intend to do about all this.”

Man and wife consulted eloquently with each other with their eyes. Then the squire said, “I think I should return to Belfast and lay the whole matter before the authorities.”