Chapter 54 Dorothea
DOROTHEA
The hand holding the shotgun dropped to the boy’s side. They stared. Edward lay on the ground, moaning in pain. His hand clutched his stomach. He lifted his fingers, stared at blood seeping through the fabric of his coat. ‘Help. Get help,’ he muttered.
Cricket took off, running towards the house.
Francis began to tremble. Dorothea felt detached; a sense of unreality washing over her, so that when she removed the shotgun from the boy’s hand, she felt an odd certainty about what she must do.
Francis. She moved in front of him: Do not let whatever was happening behind her distract her from protecting the boy.
She had caused something terrible—unwittingly so, but nevertheless, the spectacle lay there for the world to see—and Francis was suffering.
He was hers to protect, so she must protect him.
‘It’s all right, darling,’ she said, pressing his face to her breast.
‘Dorothea, help,’ came Edward’s strangled cry.
Go away, she thought. The boy was shivering. ‘Shhh,’ she murmured.
Cricket would be fetching help. Dorothea’s only job was to keep Francis’s eyes away from his father. But as a minute ticked by, then two, the boy continued to shiver and nobody arrived to help. She knew she must take him inside and deal with the shock.
‘Dorothea?’ A louder, harsher voice now. Broad, brisk. Mrs Wilson. Edith. Dorothea held tight to Francis, not looking behind, waiting for Edith. The housekeeper was here. Edith kept house. Kept things in order. Of course she was here.
But Edith’s words were panicked. ‘What happened?’
The question seemed out of place. As if Edith wasn’t ready, which was so unlike her; Edith was always ready.
‘How long will the ambulance be?’ asked Dorothea.
Her voice was calm. She could do voices very well: gentle, excited, spit-spot.
Calm was her best: saved for Francis when the bee had stung him; when Edward smacked his son’s head for lazy table manners; when angry men had come to the door of Dorothea’s childhood home and demanded to see Daddy—she had always used her calm voice, moments after tapping the end of the broomstick on the floor above the basement to warn Daddy.
I’m sorry, but my father has gone out. Would you like me to wake my mother? Calm. Ever so calm.
‘What happened, Dorothea?’ asked Edith. ‘Cricket looks like she’s seen a ghost. I couldn’t get much out of her.’ The housekeeper was staring at the pale, gruesome form of Edward on the ground.
‘An accident,’ said Dorothea. ‘How long will the ambulance be?’
The woman stared at her blankly, and Dorothea thought with a growing sense of urgency (because her calm had a limit; she was not the Buddha): Really?
You’re not going to answer me? To move? And beneath this thought another occurred.
We should be stemming the blood coming from his chest. Pressure to stop him bleeding out.
Dorothea gestured to the house. ‘Get help Edith. Now.’
But still no movement. Now that she had emerged from her own shock, Dorothea knew they needed to move!
If Edward died his son would be tainted with the stain forever.
Would he be charged? Scenarios ran through her head like slot machines in the clubs her father had liked; fruit symbols side by side, spinning, lining up: ching, ching, ching.
Was ten the age of criminal responsibility?
She was not sure. He was only months from turning ten.
He might be charged. She would have no control; no magical, fruitful explanation. No. Way. Out.
Edward’s moaning was becoming weaker.
‘Edith.’ No response. ‘Edith!’ She pushed Francis into the woman’s arms. ‘Take him. Check Cricket has rung the ambulance. Then bring towels. Hurry now!’
Dorothea dropped to her knees and pulled off her cardigan as Edith hurried Francis away.
Edward was deathly pale. She pushed the cardigan down onto the sticky puddle of his chest and stomach.
He screamed, almost sending her backward with the violent sound.
In moments, her hands were slick with red, her own stomach turning.
‘Help is coming,’ she said. She cried out for the gardeners, ‘Stan? Len? Someone help us!’ There came only the distant trilling of a skylark.
She leaned in as fresh blood seeped beneath her fingers.
Minutes passed. Edward was floating in and out of consciousness, his pallor ghostly white.
How long would the ambulance take? Ten minutes if they sped.
It must have been at least fifteen or twenty by now.
More. She lifted the cardigan, folded the second dry sleeve into a pad and pushed it onto the wound.
She kept turning towards the house, hoping someone might help; her damaged throat throbbed with pain as she called out again and again.
Five minutes more, ten. Edward was not moving, skin like ice.
She was torn with indecision. She got to her feet. ‘I’ll be back with help.’
She ran to the house, dizzy with fatigue. Her hand left streaks of red on the doorknob, the wall. ‘Edith! Where’s the ambulance?’ She pushed through the boot room, into the kitchen. Edith was sitting on a chair, staring at the Aga.
‘Is help coming, Edith?’
The woman didn’t speak. ‘Edith!’ Dorothea’s cry was hoarse. ‘What did they say to do?’
‘I haven’t called them.’
Distantly, Dorothea registered Louis was crying. She ran to the hallway where the phone sat on a marble side table.
‘He was going to take Louis from you,’ Edith said from behind her. ‘A gunshot wound like that is no accident, girl.’
‘It was!’
‘I’m not saying the bastard didn’t deserve it.’
‘But—’
‘Dorothea, there are marks on your neck.’
Dorothea felt suddenly faint.
‘Whoever pulled that trigger, the police will have a motive for only one of you.’
‘What do you mean?’ Dorothea could barely register the conversation. Edward would die if they did nothing; there was no time for discussion.
‘There are papers on his desk. Custody papers.’ Edith Wilson was speaking quickly now. ‘He’s got a letter from the lawyers. Says he’s the father of Louis. Putting together some case about you being unpredictable and unfit. Neglectful.’
‘But …’ Dorothea stumbled to find words. How could he take Louis? She was his mother.
‘They’ll believe him, not you. The courts always believe the likes of him.’
‘But I’m—’
‘Dorothea! Listen, lass! You will be tried for this shooting. From what I could make out from Cricket’s rambling just now, I reckon it was Francis who shot him, but if that bastard survives, he’ll blame it on you.
It will be all the evidence he needs to take the baby.
You can’t be a mother from prison.’ She stopped, looked hard into Dorothea’s eyes.
‘I think Cricket will help you. She’s had to put up with this situation with Louis, because he demanded it. But she hates him.’
‘I … he … I never let him …’
‘I know, girl. He’s an evil man. And Lady Fitzhenry’s death was no accident. Don’t waste your pity on him.’
Bile rose in Dorothea’s throat.
‘If you go, you have a chance. But not if you call for help now.’
‘Edith …’
‘If Edward’s lawyer was preparing a court case for Louis, he’ll know you have a motive to shoot him. Whether he lives or dies, they’ll make sure the blame is on you. Either way, you’ve got to go.’
Dorothea heard her own rapid breath, felt herself observing this moment from outside. Edward was going to take Louis. It was unthinkable.
Cricket stepped into the doorway, her freckles stark against her pale skin and girlish features.
She held Louis in her arms. Dorothea felt her mind splitting with the strange sight.
Cricket held out the baby to Dorothea. ‘Take him and go. You need to go. I’ll say nothing.
I’ll tell the lawyers a different story. ’
‘You hold him a bit longer, m’lady,’ instructed Edith. ‘Change him and get him ready.’ She took Dorothea by the arm. ‘Go and shower. We’ll put them clothes in the incinerator. I’ll light it. And I’ll move his body to give you extra time.’
‘But—’
‘Take the keys to his Land Rover. Drive somewhere you can hide until you work out how to get out of the country. We’ll say we haven’t seen his Lordship, that he’s likely in London with Clive, and that usually you would be here for Francis and I don’t know where you are.
It’s strange. When I call the police later on, I’ll tell them the last time I saw you, there was mention of a walk into the village.
It was after lunch. You’ve been missing a few hours. ’
Dorothea’s world was spinning. She looked down at the blood on her hands, her arms and legs and stomach. She was covered in sticky red blood.
‘Wipe your hands, now.’ Mrs Wilson handed her a cloth and opened up a large garbage bag. ‘Put it in here. And all your clothes. Don’t touch anything with his blood.’
The baby began to cry. Dorothea gave a panicked look towards Cricket.
‘Leave him with us until you’re cleaned up,’ said Edith. ‘And don’t say goodbye to Francis. I gave him a good slug of brandy for the shock, so he’ll be sleeping. You best get gone. Just grab a small bag, take the baby and off you go.’
Dorothea began towards the stairs.
‘Stop.’
Mrs Wilson bent down and undid Dorothea’s boots.
She saw now they were dirty, blood spattered.
She lifted her feet obediently. Around her, the house seemed to be disappearing.
She watched the stairs, the banisters receding as she mounted the staircase in her socks.
Was this a nightmare? She was leaving. She must take Louis and run.
But how could she abandon her other son?