Slight change of plan … I had intended to share this in three parts, but Substack’s email length limit means it will have to be four.
Untouchable part 2
‘Come on then, but let’s be quick. This place gives me the creeps.’
Detective Inspector Conrad Pike tore away the crime scene tape and opened the door to the Trueblood house. Matthew’s breath caught in his throat as he stepped over the threshold. Just behind the front door, tape outlined where a small figure had lain on carpet that was stained a dark reddish-brown colour.
‘That was the eldest girl, Faith. Six years old. Tried to get out, but didn’t quite make it. She was stabbed in the back, then flipped over and had her throat cut. The little one, Hope, died in there with her grandparents.’ Pike indicated the dining room. As he started on up the stairs, Matthew glanced through the open door. More tape, more rust-coloured stains, the scent of copper on the air. He swallowed and kept on going.
‘The husband was killed in there,’ Pike said, pointing to a bedroom. ‘It’s the girls’ room. The window opens out on to a flat roof, we think he was trying to get out of the house.’ He pointed to another door. ‘That was the parents’ bedroom. You’ll find what you want in there.’
Matthew went in and opened the top drawer of the dressing table. Sure enough, a selection of scarves and gloves were tucked neatly into a drawer organiser. He spotted a flash of lilac and selected the scarf; it was long, oblong, chiffon … it would be perfect.
Next, he moved over to one of the two wardrobes and opened the door; he saw suits and shirts hanging from a rail, jeans and sweaters on a shelf. He shut the door and moved to the other one. He searched through the clothes and saw a lilac and black patterned dress. He took it out and looked at it, held the scarf against the fabric and saw it was a perfect match. He closed the door and saw Constance Trueblood reflected in the mirror, her face just over his right shoulder; she nodded at him and he briefly nodded back.
‘Is there any doubt as to who was responsible?’ Matthew said to his friend.
Conrad shook his head. ‘No, it looked cut and dried, if you’ll pardon the expression. The entire family had been butchered, apart from Constance. She’d hanged herself.’
They walked out of the room and down the stairs. Matthew looked back to see a rope tied to the handrail on the upstairs landing. It had been cut when the body was taken down, but it was whole now and he saw Constance hanging there, neck broken. ‘And it was definitely suicide?’ he said.
‘Yes, absolutely. No reason to think otherwise.’
Matthew saw Constance in the doorway of the dining room; she shook her head, tears drying on her cheeks. Her two little girls, Hope and Faith, bloodstained and necks slashed, held their mother’s hands.
‘Forgive me for asking, but did you look for any evidence that might have shown a different course of events?’
Conrad huffed, annoyed. ‘There was no need,’ he said, as he reached for the latch on the front door. ‘She flipped, stabbed her parents-in-law and the youngest girl in the dining room, chased the eldest girl along the hall and caught her just before she got to the door, ran upstairs after her husband and stabbed him, then she hanged herself. That’s it. It’s unusual, I know, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.’ He pulled open the door and stepped outside. As he stood on the front step waiting for Matthew to join him, he shuddered. ‘Jesus, it’s creepy in there. It’s like they’re all still in the house, just waiting.’
Matthew followed him out. He glanced back as Conrad pulled the door to, got a last glimpse of Constance Trueblood and her two little girls. ‘I know what you mean,’ he said.
Conrad turned the key in the lock then practically ran to the car.
The streets were lined with people for the Trueblood family funeral. The cortège consisted of four horse-drawn carriages, black and glossy, glass-sided, and pulled by fine beasts with tall black plumes on their heads. The coachmen were dressed in formal black attire, top hats and gloves completing the dignified appearance. There was one carriage each for the three adults, with the two little girls together in the fourth. In addition, there were three limousines for family members who had come from all over the world, and a string of private cars following behind that. As the cortège passed by, many people fell in behind and followed on foot. The town centre was all but shut down as they passed over the bridge and headed towards Sunderland Minster.
Outside the church a PA system had been rigged up so those who couldn’t fit inside the building could hear what was going on. Rebecca and the children were inside, near the front and off to one side, due to her chair. She hadn’t wanted the children to attend, but they had insisted. Their school friends were outside with their teachers, but she had made sure Peter and Grace had permission to be with her. Under the circumstances she wanted them close, and the school understood why.
The crowd was immense, the area around the church packed. Despite there always being a percentage of the crowd in tears, when hymns were sung they rang out loud enough to be heard on the other side of the river.
The burial, at Mere Knolls cemetery, was private, but again, the streets around about were lined with mourners.
One woman in particular watched closely what went on, tears in her eyes, hanging back but taking everything in.
Back home, in the early evening, Rebecca put the phone down. ‘Another reporter,’ she said, ‘asking if we have Constance here as well, since we handled the other bodies. Honestly, they don’t give up.’
‘What did you tell them?’ said Matthew.
‘That we had nothing to do with her, of course.’
‘Good; we don’t want them round here upsetting the children. They’ve had enough to cope with.’
Rebecca sighed. ‘It’s been a tough day for everyone. The kids are exhausted, emotionally more than physically. Even though they went to bed early, they were asleep the moment their heads hit the pillow.’
Later, there was another telephone call, which Matthew took.
‘H–hello. Is that Mr Goodsir?’
Matthew had said as much when he answered the phone but the woman sounded nervous, upset, and so he was careful to be gentle with her.
‘Yes, that’s me. How can I help you?’
There was a silence; he held his tongue, giving her time to gather her thoughts enough to speak.
‘It’s my daughter, Connie. Constance Trueblood.’
It was Matthew’s turn to be silenced. He took a moment to gather himself, then said, ‘You’re Constance’s mother?’
‘Yes. I was at the funeral today for my son-in-law and my grandchildren. I flew over from Spain, I live there now.’
‘And how can I help you?’
‘I want to see Connie. I don’t believe she did those things, and I want to see her.’
‘What makes you think I have her?’ Matthew was being careful, aware this might be a reporter trying to trick him into giving away information.
‘She told me. She’s restless. She said she’d spoken to you, and her body was with you.’
‘Okay,’ said Matthew, ‘when do you want to visit?’
‘As soon as possible. I’m not far away.’
‘Come now,’ said Matthew. ‘I’ll be expecting you. The door will be locked, so knock when you get here.’
No more than fifteen minutes later there was a quiet tap at the door, and Matthew opened it to see a small woman with a shock of curly hair.
Mrs …?’
‘Malvern,’ she said.
‘Do come in.’
The woman looked over her shoulder, then stepped past Matthew and into the funeral home. He shut the door behind her and locked it.
Over the road, as this happened, a camera clicked several times. The person holding it checked the images on the rear screen, then walked back to his car. Following the mother had paid off; he reckoned what he had in his camera would pay the bills for a month or two.
Rebecca had gone to bed shortly after the last phone call from the journalist, pleading tiredness and a headache. Matthew was glad; it meant she didn’t have to know or be involved in Mrs Malvern’s visit to her daughter.
He had placed Constance ready on a table. She wore her chosen dress, the lilac scarf around her throat, and was covered head to toe by a sheet. He wanted her mother to be ready before she was faced with the sight of her dead daughter.
‘Just in here,’ he said, indicating the door, which stood ever so slightly ajar.
Mrs Malvern pushed it open and hesitated only for a moment before crossing the threshold. Matthew followed, closing the door behind them.
She walked over to the table and stopped next to it, then looked at Matthew.
‘Is this her?’ she said.
Matthew nodded. ‘Are you ready? Shall I remove the sheet?’
‘Yes, please.’ She visibly straightened her spine as she prepared herself for seeing her little girl – Constance might be an adult with children of her own now, but she’d always be her little Connie.
Matthew lifted the sheet free of Constance’s head and shoulders, then folded it back. He turned back the sheet a couple more times until it just lay over her shins, then lifted it free.
Mrs Malvern gripped her daughter’s hands, then gasped.
‘Are you okay?’ said Matthew.
‘Yes. I just wasn’t prepared for her to be so … cold.’ She shook her head. ‘Silly. I should have realised.’
‘This, thankfully, isn’t a common experience for most people.’
‘Oh, Connie,’ she said, resting her hands on top of her daughter’s hands, ‘what happened? I know you didn’t do what they say you did, you aren’t capable of such brutality. What happened, sweetheart?’
There was a rush of cold air and Matthew tensed; someone had joined them. Mrs Malvern looked up expectantly and Matthew realised that she, too, had sensed it.
She looked at a spot just behind Matthew, then lifted her hands from Constance’s to her mouth.
‘Mum?’
Matthew turned to see Constance, dressed in the clothes her body wore on the table, standing and staring at her mother.
‘Oh, Connie! What happened, sweetheart? What happened?’
‘Mum, I didn’t do it.’
‘I know, love. You aren’t capable, I was just telling Mr Goodsir that.’
‘Hello, Constance,’ Matthew said.
Constance nodded at him. ‘Thank you for making me look … more presentable,’ she said.
‘You’re welcome. Can you tell us who was responsible for what happened at the house?’
‘I don’t know, I daren’t … I … I didn’t kill myself. I didn’t kill anyone.’
‘Can you tell us anything, love?’ said Mrs Malvern.
‘Mum, you need to go back to Spain. You’re in danger. Mr Goodsir, you need to be careful, too. There are people who are causing trouble. You need to take care.’
The children appeared, one either side of Connie, and they took her hands. Each girl waved at her grandmother with her free hand.
‘Hello, darlings. Oh, Granny misses you so much!’ said Mrs Malvern.
‘We have to go, I’m sorry,’ said Constance, and the three faded, the little ones waving the whole time. The room immediately felt warmer.
Mrs Malvern shivered. ‘What can we do?’ she said to Matthew. ‘The police aren’t looking for whoever did all this, they just think it was Connie. What on earth can we do?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Matthew, ‘but I think you should leave it up to me. Constance’s warning was clear; you need to go home to be safe.’
‘What about her funeral?’ said Mrs Malvern.
‘It will be dignified, and secret,’ said Matthew.
‘Can’t I attend?’
Matthew sighed. ‘It’s scheduled to take place tomorrow, at midnight, at the crematorium. There’ll be a short service; no guests have been invited.’
‘So who’ll be there to say goodbye to Connie?’ said Mrs Malvern. ‘Who’ll be there who’d speak for her, who loved her?’
‘I’m sorry, it won’t be that kind of a funeral. I’ll be there for Connie, and there’ll be a priest and a policeman.’
‘And her mother!’ said Mrs Malvern. ‘I’ll be there, too, and I want her ashes afterwards, as well.’ She looked at him defiantly. ‘You can send me the bill. I will be there.’
Matthew nodded. He couldn’t refuse her this request, it would be heartless. ‘Very well, then, but may I suggest you meet us at the crematorium? We’ll be leaving here in an unmarked van, it will all be very low key. As you know from today’s funeral, feelings are running high. The last thing we want is for people to find out about it and conduct any sort of demonstration. I’m sure you understand.’
Next day, the paper carried a story about how a local funeral director had accepted Constance Trueblood’s body. There were pictures of Matthew opening the door to her mother, and the woman looking furtively over her shoulder before she went inside.
The paper was issued to newsagents around lunchtime, and no sooner had the papers hit the streets than the outcry started.
Matthew was picking up one of the limousines, which had been in for a service, when he got a frantic phone call from his daughter.
‘Dad? You need to come home, quick!’ Rebecca said.
Adrenaline coursed through Matthew’s veins; Rebecca sounded panicked, which wasn’t at all like her.
‘What’s happened?’ he said. ‘The children—?’
‘They’re okay, they’re upstairs in Peter’s room. There are people here protesting about you handling Constance Trueblood’s funeral. They’re— oh!’
Rebecca’s exclamation followed the sound of breaking glass. ‘They’ve just put a window in,’ she said. ‘Dad, I’m scared. I don’t know what to do.’
‘Sit tight,’ said Matthew. ‘Get away from the front windows. I’m going to ring Conrad.’
‘Okay, thanks.’ Rebecca’s voice faded almost to a whisper. ‘Come home … we need you,’ she said, then hung up.
By the time Matthew got home, Conrad was already there, along with a squad of uniformed police officers. Rebecca and the children were in the kitchen, being looked after by a police officer who was busy making tea. Peter was wearing the man’s hat.
‘How did they find out?’ said Matthew.
Conrad showed him the paper. ‘Someone was watching, probably been following Constance’s mother since she came into the country.’
‘How could they know she had? Mrs Malvern wasn’t married when she had Constance, there was no obvious link between their names.’
Conrad drew in a breath and let it out slowly. ‘We made the connection and traced her to let her know what had happened. We knew she was coming to the country and attending the funeral yesterday, but we asked her to keep it low key.’
‘Well, she did. So how did whoever took those pictures know who she was?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Conrad. ‘All I can think is that we have a leak. Someone maybe took money to tell a journalist … believe me, there’ll be an investigation and I’ll find out who it was. That’ll be the end of their career and very likely the start of a spell inside, so I hope they were well paid.’
‘Is all that really necessary?’ said Matthew.
‘What if, instead of a rock through the window, they’d thrown a petrol bomb?’
‘Lord, I never even considered that.’ Matthew sat down suddenly. The possibility was all too real.
Eighteen months earlier Matthew and Rebecca had attended an awards ceremony celebrating excellence in care and service within the funeral industry. John had stayed home to look after his and Rebecca’s three children. At the time, Dora was eleven years old, Peter had been nine, and Grace, six. His mother-in-law had volunteered to keep him company; she was happy to let Matthew and Rebecca represent the firm. They had walked away with the coveted gold cup.
They were happy and laughing in the car on the way back to the house. They’d sent a text to say they’d won, but the real celebration would happen when they got home.
Matthew saw the flames as soon as he turned into the road John and Rebecca’s house stood on. They blazed brightly against the dark night. He screeched to a halt and he and Rebecca jumped out of the car and raced to the front of the house.
Matthew had his keys in his hand, and he touched the door as he tried to fit the key in the lock.
‘Ow!’ he said, ‘that’s hot!’
‘Don’t open the door, Dad,’ Rebecca said. ‘It might make things worse. Feed the flames with oxygen.’
‘Let’s try the back,’ he said.
They ran around the house and saw Sarah and John holding Grace and Peter near the bedroom window on the first floor, so they could get some clean air into their lungs. Matthew looked round frantically and spotted the trampoline. He dragged it over to the patio, positioning it under the window.
‘Drop the children,’ he said. ‘I’ll catch them when the hit the trampoline so they don’t bounce off and hurt themselves.’
‘Okay,’ said John. ‘Peter first.’
Peter was wide-eyed and terrified as his father held him firmly by the wrists and lowered him as far as he could. ‘Look at me,’ he said. ‘You’re safe. It’s not a big drop and you’ll land on the trampoline, then Grandpa will catch you.’
Peter nodded, his eyes on his father.
‘Ready? One, two, three!’ On three, John let go of his son’s wrists and Peter fell the remaining distance to the trampoline. Matthew caught hold of him before he bounced clear, and he lifted him to safety.
‘Peter!’ said Rebecca, and the boy ran to her as fast as his shaking legs would allow.
Meanwhile John was busy lifting Grace over the window ledge. He repeated the process with his younger daughter and she, too, was soon safe.
‘Where’s Dora?’ Matthew called.
‘I don’t know.’
‘She must be still in there!’ said Matthew, and Rebecca looked up.
‘I’ll put the children in the car,’ she said. They were barefoot, in pyjamas. ‘They’ll catch their death out here.’
She hurried away round the side of the house with the children. Matthew heard sirens in the distance and heaved a sigh of relief. He looked back up to the window.
‘Are you and Sarah going to jump?’ he said, but there was no sign of either Sarah or John. His heart in his mouth, he ran to the front of the house to wait for the emergency services.
As he rounded the corner, he saw Rebecca disappear into the house through the front door.
‘Rebecca, no!’ he shouted, and ran to the door in time to see her leap over the fire and race up the stairs. He could hardly see her due to the smoke and flames. Instinctively she put her hand on the banister to steady herself and immediately cried out in pain as it burned her. She lost her balance and crashed through the banister, then fell awkwardly to the floor below.
‘Rebecca!’ Matthew couldn’t see any way to get past the flames to reach her. But she was his daughter; she needed him and he wouldn’t let her down. He took off his jacket and draped it over his head, then plunged into the burning house.
The fire engine had arrived and the firefighters were getting organised. They arrived at the door as Matthew, with Rebecca in his arms, staggered along the hall.
A firefighter immediately took her from him and another helped him outside. He was coughing and choking, the smoke thick in his lungs, and he gratefully gulped fresh air.
‘Is there anyone else inside?’ someone asked him.
‘Two adults in an upstairs bedroom, and a girl, my granddaughter. I don’t know where she is.’
‘Okay. You sit tight, the ambulance will be here any second.’ The firefighter put down her visor, attached her breathing equipment and walked into the house.
Matthew watched as, a short while later, she returned carrying Sarah. Sarah was unconscious. Two ambulances had arrived and one had already sped away with Rebecca and the children in it. Sarah, and a short while later John, were carried to the second ambulance.
‘Shouldn’t you be seen to for smoke inhalation?’ said a firefighter.
Matthew shook his head. ‘I’m okay. I want to know what’s happening with Sarah and John – my wife and son-in-law – but they just keep telling me to give them space and let them work.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘Then there’s Dora, my granddaughter. I don’t know where she is.’
Conrad had arrived at some point, Matthew didn’t know when, and he sat next to Matthew on the wall. ‘I’m sorry, old friend. It’s Dora … they’ve found her, but she’s … they couldn’t help her. It was too late.’
‘No,’ said Matthew. ‘Oh, God, no.’
He wept. The ambulance containing Sarah and John pulled away and a coroner’s van arrived to collect Dora’s remains.
‘Come on, I’ll take you to the hospital and we’ll see how the others are doing,’ said Conrad, not wanting his friend to see his granddaughter brought out. Matthew nodded and they went to Conrad’s car.
At the hospital there was more bad news. While Rebecca’s burns would heal and her lungs would clear, there was concern about the damage she had done to her legs and pelvis when she fell. Whatever happened, she faced a long road to recovery. Both Sarah and John had died without regaining consciousness.
Rebecca was aware that tonight was to be Constance’s funeral and so she went to bed early, in order to leave her father to it. She wanted no part in the proceedings.
She was angry about the events of the day, devastated that the children had been dragged into it.
‘I told him no good would come of it,’ she muttered, as she slathered moisturiser on her face. The air chilled and Rebecca shivered. ‘Mother?’ she said, looking round.
‘A mother, but not your mother,’ said Constance.
‘You don’t deserve to be called “mother” after what you did,’ said Rebecca. She turned back to the mirror and finished moisturising her face and neck. ‘What do you want, anyway?’ she said, eyeing Constance in the glass.
‘Justice,’ said Constance.
Rebecca snorted. ‘Justice! After what you did? What about justice for Grace and Faith? For David, and his mum and dad?’
‘It’s all part and parcel of the same thing, Rebecca. Don’t you want justice for your mother, and your husband, and your eldest daughter?’
‘How dare you drag them into it!’ said Rebecca. ‘How dare you! They died, but it was an accident! I didn’t murder them!’
‘And my family were not murdered by me!’ exclaimed Constance. ‘We’re alike, you and I. We’re more alike than you can imagine.’
‘Don’t you dare—’
‘We’ll speak of this again, but now I have to go,’ said Constance. ‘Peace. Love. Little else matters.’
She shimmered into nothingness and Rebecca was left alone once more.
At ten minutes to midnight, the same unmarked coroner’s van that had delivered Constance Trueblood to the funeral home arrived to take her away again. Conrad had checked that the streets were clear and no one was watching; the van reversed up to the doors and was then loaded with a coffin. It pulled away again, with Matthew in the front seat, alongside Conrad and the driver.
When they arrived at the crematorium, Mrs Malvern was standing in shadow near the door. Matthew climbed out and went over to her.
‘How are you?’ he said, as he shook her hand.
‘I’m fine, thank you. After what I’ve heard today, I’m more worried about you, to be honest.’
‘Thank you. Happily, the family are all fine. It was a shock, but we’ve coped with worse.’
‘I’m just glad I rented a cottage rather than booking into a hotel. I reckon it’s the only reason I’ve had any privacy.’
‘And you weren’t followed here?’
She shook her head. ‘I took four taxis, doubling back on myself as part of the journey. Then I got dropped off at a nearby pub and walked the rest of the way.’ She looked at him. ‘I was careful. They must have picked me out at the funeral yesterday, I’m just lucky whoever it was ran off with the pictures rather than waiting until I came back out; if they’d done that, they might have been able to follow me back to the cottage.’
‘We’re ready,’ said Conrad, to Matthew. He nodded at Constance’s mother. ‘Mrs Malvern. My apologies for you being followed and photographed. I assure you, as I have assured Matthew, that I will find out who was responsible and they will be punished.’
She nodded in return, then looked beyond him to see her daughter’s coffin on a gurney. Her hand flew to her mouth.
‘We have no pallbearers,’ said Matthew. ‘I thought, perhaps, that Conrad could push the gurney into the crematorium and we could walk behind, then take our seats.’
He looked up as another person joined them.
‘Hello, Matthew, Conrad,’ said the Reverend Boston. He turned to Mrs Malvern and smiled.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’m Vida Malvern. I’m Constance’s mother.’
‘Ah, then please accept my condolences. I’m Reverend Alexander Boston. I knew the family and, for what it’s worth, I don’t believe that your daughter is guilty of what she is charged with.’
Vida Malvern wiped away a tear. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It means a great deal to me, to know she had friends who understood that she was a good person.’
Reverend Boston took her hands in his. ‘She was a very good person,’ he said. ‘I have never doubted her.’
‘Shall we go in?’ said Matthew.
Reverend Boston took his place in front of the coffin. He dropped his eyes, crossed his hands, and took a moment to compose himself, then started to walk slowly into the building and along the central aisle.
Behind him, Conrad pushed the gurney and Vida Malvern, then Matthew, fell in behind that. The driver stayed in the vehicle.
Reverend Boston stopped at the head of the aisle and stepped to one side, and Conrad pushed the gurney beyond him.
Conrad, Matthew and Vida positioned themselves in front of the foremost left-hand pew, and Reverend Boston moved to the centre of the room again.
The service was short. It didn’t follow any kind of prescribed format, and yet it managed to honour the young woman in the coffin.
When it was over, Reverend Boston wheeled the gurney into the rear area, behind the curtains, then closed them and rejoined the others.
‘Thank you,’ said Vida Malvern, first to Reverend Boston and then to Matthew. ‘Thank you so much. I hope that—’ she paused and took a moment to compose herself. ‘I hope that one day her name can be cleared.’
The hairs on Matthew’s arms stood on end as the atmosphere became chilled, and he and Vida looked at the curtains behind Reverend Boston. Constance stood there in her black and purple dress, the violet scarf around her throat hiding the mark of the rope that had choked the life out of her, and she mouthed, ‘Thank you.’ She brushed tears away, then disappeared.
Conrad shivered; he looked haunted for a moment but said nothing. Reverend Boston smiled and nodded. It wasn’t the first time he had experienced such an incident.
Rebecca was waiting for Matthew when he returned home.
‘Hello, darling, I didn’t expect you to be up at this time,’ he said.
‘Nor did I,’ said Rebecca.
‘So, what happened?’ he said.
‘I’ve made tea,’ said Rebecca, and she wheeled her chair into the kitchen. The teapot, mugs and other things were on the table. Rebecca poured, and offered a cup to Matthew.
‘Thank you,’ he said. He took a seat at the table as she poured her own cup.
‘She came to see me,’ Rebecca said. ‘Constance Trueblood came to see me, tonight, in my room, and she told me that she and I were the same.’
‘Really? Did she say in what way?’ said Matthew.
Rebecca’s jaw dropped. ‘In what way? In what way? I don’t believe you! How can you think that there can be any possible way in which we are the same?’
Matthew sipped his tea, wanting a moment to prepare his answer.
‘Well?’ Rebecca glared at him.
‘The main way I can think of is in that you have both lost family and yet neither of you was responsible.’
‘You can’t really believe it wasn’t her. Dad, even Conrad—’
‘I have the greatest respect for Conrad, as you know. But in this instance, I believe him to be mistaken.’
‘Have you told him?’
Matthew sighed. ‘Not in so many words, although it’s evident I need to, and soon. It’s something that has become clear to me in conversations I, and her mother, have had with Constance. She is unjustly accused. Not just accused, but convicted and sentenced, even if only in people’s minds.’
Rebecca stared at him. She knew her father to be a fair-minded man, and also that he carried the same burden she did with regard to the fire that had robbed them of their family. ‘You really think so, Dad?’
Matthew nodded. ‘I really do. Imagine if you or I were in that position. Imagine if we had been accused of starting the fire.’
Rebecca swallowed. She wondered how she might feel if, instead of receiving sympathy for her situation, she was vilified for causing the very catastrophe that had robbed her of her mobility, accused of bringing about the deaths of her mother, husband and daughter. And what if she had not even been in a position to defend herself?
The Constance she had known was not the Constance she had seen accused and denigrated in the local press, heard about in the words spewing out of the mouths of friends and neighbours. She was more the Constance who had defended herself to Rebecca that very evening, the evening of her own funeral.
‘Speak to her, Dad. Find out how we can help.’
I hope you enjoyed today’s newsletter. If you did, please spread the word.
Thanks for reading and see you next time.
:)