An All Hallows’ Eve Mystery - Chapter 19

‘Perhaps you could begin, madam,’ John said dryly. Mrs Hanson and her daughter, Helena, sat on the sofa, whilst Fred and the magistrate took up the chairs facing them; Jane posted in a corner to his right.

Though he, Jane, and their reinforcements could’ve just handed the ladies to the magistrate, explaining everything, John had decided—after one glance at Jane to confirm her assent—to meet Mrs Hanson’s request.

A chance to tell her own tale in Fred’s presence—and not her husband’s—before she and Helena were carted off to face undoubtedly severe judgement.

All John had seen in her was a resolve to face her own destiny, so he’d agreed.

‘Yes, do,’ the magistrate growled. ‘I’m ready to be done with this place.’

‘I killed Mr Willcombe,’ she said flatly, raising a brow, and regarding the magistrate imperiously. ‘I poured a distillation of monkshood root into his washbowl.’

Everyone blinked, waiting, but the woman said nothing more.

‘You asked to tell your story,’ John entreated. ‘We must hear it all.’

‘The man owed a debt,’ Mrs Hanson said, venomously. ‘I took what was owed. Spent years gathering the knowledge to do so. I married Hanson knowing his connection to Willcombe, then persuaded him to return here. The night Willcombe died, I gave my husband enough laudanum so he wouldn’t stir. Helena and I exchanged Willcombe’s trunk with my own false-bottomed one. I laced the water, hid, and waited until he was dead, and all of you were gone the next morning. Then I emerged, and Helena helped switch the trunks again.’

‘I’m convinced,’ the magistrate said, slapping his knees, and rising.

Honestly…

John glanced at Jane, finding her looking…

Grim.

Probably the prospect of sending two to the gallows…

‘There are holes in that tale,’ John pointed out, halting the magistrate’s momentum. John didn’t leave things…untidy. ‘Who gathered that knowledge, by fostering alliances and affairs with servants here—at least those who wouldn’t make the familial connection—hence why she hid in the attic once she’d slipped into the house as your maid. Why your daughter was seen roaming the halls the night Willcombe died, past the time he would’ve expired, and who tried to kill Miss Powell.’

John’s voice rose, and the woman flinched, hatred pouring from her eyes.

‘Who’s Miss Powell?’ the magistrate asked.

The room sighed; John cast an irritated hand in Jane’s direction.

‘It’s natural to shield your daughter, madam, but of no use.’

‘He’s right,’ Helena said, taking her mother’s hand. ‘I made my own choices.’ Mrs Hanson prepared to argue, but Helena was quicker. ‘We planned it together. I hid in the trunk. I was in the halls because I went to tell Mother it was over. I tried to kill Miss Powell, when Mother said the girl seemed to recognise her.’

‘I still don’t understand why,’ Fred frowned, unable to place his own recognition of the women.

I should’ve warned him…

‘I hadn’t planned for you to be blamed,’ Mrs Hanson said steadily, turning to him. ‘I only reacted out of fear. I’d planned to surrender myself, once Helena was far away.’

Fred frowned deeper, the woman’s veracity undeniable, but her motives still unclear.

‘My youngest daughter, Rosalind,’ Mrs Hanson said meaningfully, and Fred paled, realising. ‘Eloped at barely eighteen. Helena and I were in Switzerland—I’d left Rosalind with a friend, who lived not five miles from here. When I was advised of what she’d done… It couldn’t be undone. Even then, I had this undeniable sense… I wasn’t unaware, of your father’s reputation. A charmer, successful, yes, but an iron-willed, tempestuous man. To my everlasting regret… I allowed my disapproval to keep me away. We wrote… Rosalind begged me to visit, especially once you were born, but my mistrust of your father… My pride, kept me away.’

The woman looked to the Heavens, chasing back tears, perhaps demanding again why God had taken her child.

‘My pride, and your father, cost me Rosalind. They called it an accident, but I knew. In my heart, I knew your father killed her in a fit of rage.’

Fred shook his head, tears tumbling down his cheeks, whilst the magistrate looked like he wished to be anywhere else.

John—

‘He didn’t kill her.’

The denial came not from Fred’s lips, as one might expect, but from…

Jane’s.