Property of a Lady

‘I think he’d have liked Michael, don’t you?’ said Beth, and then, in a rare show of emotion, leaned over in the car and put her arms round her mother’s neck. She smelt sweet and young and fresh, and Nell thought: oh God, I can’t bear the thought of Christmas without Brad. I can’t bear that he won’t see Beth laughing and enjoying a Christmas party, and opening presents . . .

But she hugged Beth back and said, yes, Dad would have liked Michael very much, and the shop’s open day would be great and had Beth remembered her gym shoes?

When the longing for Brad overwhelmed her like this, the only thing to do was focus on the practicalities of life.

The archives office had births, deaths and marriages on microfiche. Nell typed in a request for William Lee and, asked to provide a date within five years, added 1887 to 1892.

The microfiche ticked and scrolled along, and Nell waited, her heart pounding. It was absurd to feel apprehensive; it could not matter very much whether William Lee had died of honourable old age or succumbed to some peculiar and unpronounceable disease in a far-flung outpost of the empire.

Here it was now. A smudgy facsimile of a death certificate. The date was January 1889. William Lee was described as a widower, and his wife’s name was Elizabeth. This all fitted. He had been born in 1850 in the County of Shropshire, and under the column for profession was the word ‘Gentleman’. This fitted as well.

The cause of his death was given as dislocation of the neck and severance of the spinal cord.

The place of his death was Shrewsbury Gaol.

William Lee had been hanged.

It should not have come as such a shock – the clues had all been there – and yet Nell was sat staring at the screen for several minutes. Then she entered a new search request for Elizabeth Lee. This time she knew the exact year of death. 1888.

And there it was. Elizabeth Alexandra Lee, born 1858. Wife of William Lee in the County of Shropshire. The cause of death was given as trauma to skull.

The facts were as clear as if they had been printed on the screen. William Lee had been hanged at Shrewsbury Gaol for murdering his wife. And three months later, his seven-year-old daughter, Elvira, had been confined to Brank Asylum, where she had lived for the rest of her life.





TWENTY-ONE




From the archives to the newspaper offices was a logical step mentally, and a relatively brief drive physically.

It was not a very pleasant drive though; the sky was iron grey, and a bitter sleet drove in spiteful flurries against the windscreen. Had it been a morning like this when William Lee was hanged? As he was led into the execution chamber, had he glimpsed a leaden sky through prison windows, or had his thoughts been only for his daughter left behind? Nell tried to imagine the small Elvira Lee on that morning and could only see Beth’s bewildered little face when she had to tell her about Brad. Beth had not cried when she knew about her father’s death; she had sunk into a small, frozen huddle of confused misery. Had Elvira done the same thing? But what about Elvira’s blindness? She had talked to Harriet about that little tree-planting ceremony – she had described how she had worn a scarlet hat and scarf that morning, so she had had her sight then. When had she lost it? And how?

The newspaper offices were warm and welcoming after the bleak morning. Nell found the report of the case quite quickly; the Marston Lacy and Bryn Marston Advertiser had reported on it with diligence and commendable restraint. The article explained that on a night in October 1888, William Lee, for reasons best known to himself, had woken his wife from sleep and killed her by smashing in her skull. Then he had pushed her body down the stairs of their house, Mallow House in Marston Lacy, clearly hoping the fall would inflict other injuries and disguise the blow he had dealt:

‘Police investigations, although thorough, did not immediately encompass the hapless widower, and his assertion that a common housebreaker had been in the house was accepted.



After his arrest, William Lee held by this account of a burglar throughout the trial, repeating his description of the man, while admitting he had only seen a fleeting glimpse of him. ‘A thickset man,’ he said. ‘Pallid of complexion and with deep-set eyes.’