Chapter 40 Rachel #2
Emily shakes her head. “I didn’t know that. She told me she was from a small town, but I never knew the name. She talked about strawberry fields nearby, and growing up there with her parents.” She blinks hard again, glances at the end table, and plucks a pre-emptive tissue from a box.
“Did she ever mention a town called Millgate?” Stevens asks.
“No,” Emily says. “Not that I recall.”
“Hm. Okay.” Stevens taps his pen on the pad. “The coroner’s report listed her hometown as Toronto, but you’re sure she didn’t grow up there?”
“I’m sure,” Emily says, frowning. “She said she grew up in a small town.”
Rachel’s mind is whirring. There are two large strawberry farms around Millgate, but that’s true of plenty of southwestern Ontario towns. Still, the evidence is mounting.
Stevens presses for the next question. “Do you happen to know whether her parents are still alive? Still there? Or if they were, at the time of her death?”
With a heavy sigh, Emily recounts a conversation she’d had with Annie Little about her parents’ move to Ottawa, how her father had disowned her when she became ill, but that her mother had continually tried to appeal for her release.
Rachel’s brow is furrowed. “None of that was in the grand jury investigation. Why not?”
“You read it?”
“Yes, ma’am. And your article in Chatelaine. Doris Anderson sent me a copy by courier.”
Emily swallows, her eyes growing dark. “Well, I was told it was an investigation into the overall conditions and management of the Mercer, and that they weren’t focusing on individual inmates’ experiences.
I tried to tell them everything I’d put in my article, about Annie, and her murder.
But all the matrons except for the one who tried to save Annie corroborated with the warden and doctor,” she says, her voice louder, stronger now.
“It was appalling. Eris Stone had already thrown Matron Carnegie under the bus, so the others were all happy to have her take the blame, and they went on to other jobs. You’re police officers,” she says, her mouth twisting into a wry pucker.
“I’m sure you know that when push comes to shove, most people will do anything they can to save their own skins.
Morals and ethics tend to go out the window in the face of threat. ”
Rachel is quiet for a moment, refrains from agreement with difficulty. She can’t count the number of times she’s seen exactly that in her line of work. She has no doubt Emily Radcliffe is right.
Emily takes a long sip of coffee, staring at her lap. Rachel and Stevens exchange a glance, silently trying to decide how to proceed.
“Okay, uh…what was Annie Little’s mother’s name?” Rachel asks. They need to confirm whether Millgate was the family’s hometown. That might help explain at least why the deceased was brought to the cemetery there, if not the reason for the grave to go unmarked.
“Helen,” Emily says. “Helen Sharrock. It was on the records I saw in Stone’s office. It was unusual enough that I never forgot it. Not that I would have anyway,” she mutters.
“Did you ever try to contact Helen after you got out of the Mercer? Or for the article?” Stevens asks.
Emily wrinkles her nose, continuing to fight tears. “Uh, no. No, I didn’t. I uh, I couldn’t.”
Rachel watches the guilt settle into the creases of Emily’s face. “Why not?”
Emily is quiet for a long moment, staring down at the tissue twisted in her hands. “Because I blamed myself for Annie’s death for a long time. I couldn’t face her mother.”
“But do you have any idea where Helen Sharrock is? If she’s still alive?” Rachel presses.
“With respect, Detective, I don’t see how that’s relevant to the investigation, and I don’t want to talk about it,” Emily says firmly.
She takes a deep breath. Rachel wants to challenge her on that—it is relevant—but gives her a pass for the moment.
“But I have always wondered what happened to her body,” Emily adds.
“There was a lot of chaos, and it wasn’t until after I had been home for a while and wrote the article that I actually stopped to think about it, and by then, I sort of didn’t want to. ”
“Do you think Helen Sharrock would have claimed her daughter’s body?” Rachel asks.
Emily nods. “Yes. Of course. She’d tried to get Annie released several times, but Eris Stone blocked it. That was what…” She lets her breath out slowly. “That was what finally galvanized Annie to let me try to use the information I had about Stone as leverage to secure her release.”
“Blackmail?” Stevens asks.
Emily raises one eyebrow, shrugs. “If you like.”
“You say Eris Stone killed Annie Little,” Rachel begins.
Emily nodded emphatically. “She did.”
“And you’re saying that was because you tried to blackmail her?”
Emily licks her lips. “Yes. But I also believe she was a eugenicist, and a psychopath. I think she used her position of power over those women as an outlet for her psychopathy. We know now that psychopaths and sociopaths do that. It’s documented.
And Eris Stone deserved that blue dress far more than most of the psych inmates did. That I know for certain.”
Stevens shifts uncomfortably in the chair beside Rachel, who merely nods. “And can you tell us what happened after the article ran?”
“Sure,” Emily says, though she sounds a little reluctant.
“It ran in the February edition, and it might have been the first time one of the articles in Chatelaine really picked up national attention. From other media, I mean. We made sure copies got sent to everyone in a position of importance, within the government, the chief of police, all of it. And it did what I hoped it would, it triggered an investigation. The grand jury came in, did their inspections—without advance warning this time. And as you can imagine, their findings were somewhat different than they were when the warden and Stone had time to set the stage for the scheduled yearly inspection.”
“And what happened to Eris Stone?” Stevens asks.
“She was stripped of her licence,” Emily says.
“She said Matron Carnegie must have been negligent and allowed Annie access to an overdose. But Carnegie was one of the few matrons who ever challenged Stone, and showed compassion to Annie and some of the other psych inmates. And the coroner’s report said it was suicide, so…
” She releases a shaky breath. “They couldn’t prove the murder, but they could prove the rest. The investigators contacted the drug company, who said all they knew was that Stone had a pool of participants for the trial, so they sent her the drugs and her payment.
But they turned on her fast when they learned what she had been doing, and cooperated fully with the authorities.
My friend June Jones, and several of the other inmates, corroborated on the gynecological abuse and torture, of being deliberately infected and enduring the drug trial treatment.
That all checked out.” Emily pauses, plays with the ring on her left hand.
“Stone went to prison for a time, and that felt good. I liked picturing her in a uniform, taking orders. Even if it was only for a few months.”
Rachel waits a moment, lets Emily settle a bit. “Do you have any thoughts on why she would kill Annie Little and not you, if you were the one threatening to expose her?” she asks.
Emily meets her eyes square on, a first for the conversation.
“I’ve thought a lot about that,” she says, “and I did when I was in isolation, too. But I think…” She clenches her hands into fists again, staring into the middle distance of her living room.
“It removed Annie from the equation, and sent a message to me about who was in control. That was always Stone’s obsession, having the inmates know that she was the one in control, not us.
If she’d killed me outright, the message wouldn’t have stuck, would it?
And I think also, really, she might have been a bit scared.
Or at least, I think she made a calculation. ”
“How so?”
“Well, once all the other inmates knew who I was, and what had happened to Annie…if I’d turned up dead, that would have triggered an investigation itself, and it would have all become pretty obvious that I’d been murdered.
But I think she figured she could keep me in there as long as she wanted to, and she was right.
She had the authority to, despite any appeals that would have come from my family, or my boss, who would have hired a lawyer to get me out.
I had advocates on the outside more powerful than Helen Sharrock was.
But the legislation gave Stone all the power, regardless.
In black and white.” She shakes her head and barrels on, talking faster now as Stevens struggles to keep up with his notes.
“I think, by shoving me into that blue uniform, she thought she was buying herself an infinite amount of time. In her twisted mind, when I was finally released—God only knew when—I might not have even had the job at Chatelaine anymore, and who would believe the story of a woman who had been locked up as a lunatic for years on end? I know I would have gone mad in that place, stuck in isolation. I would have come out of the Mercer even crazier than I did.”
“What do you mean?” Rachel frowns.
Emily takes a sip of her coffee and a deep breath. She taps her knee with her free hand as she speaks, surveying Rachel with a keen eye.
“Three of my toes twitched constantly, day and night, for two years after I came home. I had night sweats worse than my menopause. Had to change the sheets every morning. I had migraines I’d never had before in my life.
That sense of dread and doom that crouches down right here,” she said, pointing to her sternum.
Rachel knows the one.
“I had the sensation of a lump in my throat for several months at one point, worried it was cancer. I had all the unpleasant tests, and they found nothing. And strange things that cropped up with no other explanation, like hives, vertigo.” Emily exhales through a little O in her lips.
“All the average person really heard about back then were things like housewives with ‘delicate nerves,’ the veterans’ shell shock and the behaviours they still sometimes called ‘hysteria.’ Now, of course, even a layperson knows those as anxiety, traumatic stress, and panic attacks.
All of which I still grapple with from time to time.
” She takes another sip of coffee. “I can only drink decaf now. The caffeine exacerbates it all. I learned that the hard way. At any rate,” she continues, blinking a few times, “I was afraid to tell anyone besides my parents what was going on, for fear they’d lock me up for real this time, send me over to 999 Queen or some such place. ”
Her eyes drift off for a moment, and Rachel watches her. Where has she gone?
Emily shakes her head, breaking the trance.
“Fortunately, I had wonderful, understanding parents. But you coming here now, Detective, and bringing up Annie Little…well…I knew then, and I know now, how easily I could have been her. How easily those women were incarcerated. They needed help, and care. Not punishment. We don’t punish people for having broken legs or cancer, do we?
We don’t blame them and abuse them for it. ”
Rachel thinks of Mary and shoves the image aside. “I’m sorry you’ve gone through all that,” she says.
“Annie had postpartum psychosis, they call it now,” Emily says.
“I think my sister might have, too, though more mildly than Annie. But women recover after a while, with medications and other help. Not shock therapy and sedatives and restraints.” A tear slides down her cheek now.
“Annie got better, and they just…kept her anyway. Because they could.”
They’re all quiet for a moment, the only sound the soft crackle of paper under Stevens’s hand as he completes his notes. Rachel is still connecting the dots in her head as Emily finishes her drink, eyes unfocused. She stands suddenly.
“Here, let me refill your drinks.”
“Sure. Thank you.” Rachel watches her leave with the tray, knowing it’s an excuse to compose herself.
“What do you think?” Stevens asks quietly.
Rachel runs her tongue over her teeth. “I think our Jane Doe is almost certainly Annie Little. Cause of death is overdose, per the coroner’s report, with no way to prove foul play.
That allegation will be a question mark, probably forever.
” Her shoulders fall a little. “But we need to confirm whether Millgate was in fact the Sharrocks’ hometown.
“Ms. Radcliffe,” she calls to Emily, who returns from the kitchen a moment later with the tray of mugs. “Do you happen to know how old Annie Little was when she died? Approximately, even?”
Emily sets the tray down. “Mid-thirties, I think.”
Rachel does some quick math. It’s likely the elder Sharrocks are dead.
A little flare rises in her gut. They need to go back to the Millgate Cemetery office and search for Helen Sharrock’s name.
If she’s buried in the same cemetery, odds are excellent this case is nearly solved; she brought her daughter’s body back to her hometown cemetery.
But why, she still wonders, was there no headstone, and no record?
She doesn’t want to doubt Julie, and she’d thought they had thoroughly eliminated the question of an administrative error. But maybe they missed something.
“Well,” Rachel says, rising a moment before Stevens does, hastily shoving his notebook back into his pocket, “I think we should get back. Thank you for your time, Ms. Radcliffe. I’ll be in touch if we need anything more.”
“You’re welcome,” Emily says, standing along with them now. “But wait,” she adds, focusing on Rachel. “Why is Annie a Jane Doe? Why don’t you know whose body it is?”
“Because it was in a casket, but the grave was unmarked.”
“Why? If you think Millgate was Annie’s hometown, why wouldn’t she have a headstone? That just seems so…inadequate. After all she’d been through, for her resting place to not be marked. Why?”
Rachel gives Emily a regretful sort of look. “That’s exactly what we’re trying to figure out, Ms. Radcliffe.”