Don't Forget Louise

“Nobody believed in me. That was their first mistake.”

There was venom in the words which made the hair stand up on the back of Helen’s neck. She peered around the bookshelves into the next aisle. The only person there was an elderly woman who was arranging books on the bottom shelf. She straightened up when she saw Helen.

“Can I help you? My name’s Sophie. I’m a volunteer here.”

Helen blinked, trying to reconcile the icy voice she had heard with the sweet old lady who stood before her.

“Yes,” she said, flustered. “Where are the books on local history?”

“Follow me,” said Sophie. “Let me introduce you to our librarian. Are you visiting the area?”

“Yes,” said Helen. “Westerfield is such a beautiful village. I’m staying at the Boar’s Head Inn for a few days.”

“I retired here a couple of years ago,” said Sophie as they approached the desk. “Meet Martha, our librarian.”

Martha, an attractive brunette, looked up from her computer.

“Hello,” said Helen, extending her hand. “I’m Helen Davidson.”

Martha’s eyes gleamed with excitement.

“Not the Helen Davidson, true crime writer? I loved your book about the Gilmore killing. Not that I approve of murder, but I could see why she snapped. Her husband had it coming. Are you here on holiday?”

“A working holiday,” said Helen. “I’m doing research for my next book.”

“The Halliwell case? Murder or misfortune?” said Martha.

“How did you know?”

“An educated guess. Bicycle theft is about the worst crime that’s happened here since. Who’d write a book about that?” Martha said, laughing.

Sophie’s pupils dilated and darkened as she directed a piercing glance at Helen, who stepped back, startled. She wondered if she had imagined things as Sophie’s sweet smile returned almost instantly.

“A real live author!” Sophie said. “How exciting. I must run, though. A pleasure to meet you, Helen. Bye, Martha.”

She waved a plump little hand as she bustled off.

“She’s wonderful,” said Martha. “Don’t know what I’d do without her. I can’t talk now, but we could meet at the Boar’s Head later and I’ll tell you what I know. The case has fascinated me for years.”

She reached under the desk.

“Meanwhile, here’s a book about the family. I keep it on the down low as not everyone appreciates the village being in the headlines for bad news.”

Thanking her, Helen pocketed the book. Returning to the Boar’s Head, she sat down outside on the patio, ordered a sandwich and a glass of wine and was soon absorbed in the book. She started when Martha sat down opposite, holding a pint of beer.

“Hello! I love my job, but TGIF,” she said. “I’ve got some nachos coming to share. What do you think so far?”

“Well, if I’ve got it straight, George Halliwell, his wife Louise and their toddler Muriel move into a large house just outside the village in 1940. No one knows how he makes his living, but money is evidently no object. Nice car, good clothes, expensive watch and cuff links. How am I doing?”

“So far, so good,” said Martha, swigging some beer. “Bear in mind that this is during the war, when there’s rationing, blackouts and everyone is wearing hand-me-downs.”

“Why is he not off fighting?” asked Helen.

“Too old. It was quite the May-December marriage,” said Martha, visibly brightening as the bowl of nachos was served. “Help yourself. Lord, I’m starving. Go on.”

“They hire a local girl, Josie Morgan, to help in the house. According to Josie, George is hardly ever at home and when he is, he expects Louise to jump to his every whim. They quarrel, and George is prone to knocking her around when he’s angry or drunk. No Me Too in those days.”

Helen snapped the book shut and reached for a nacho.

“That’s as far as I got. These nachos are good.”

Martha looked around and dropped her voice.

“Long story short, Louise disappears about a year later. There’s a military camp a few miles away and George says that she ran off with one of the soldiers. He produces a postcard from her saying she’s sorry, but she’s not coming back, so there’s no investigation. There’s a war on, after all, and Louise had no family. After a while, George brings home a woman called Pearl Whitehouse to take care of Muriel. Pearl is not Mary Poppins. She wears tight, flashy clothes and bright red lipstick and has little patience with Muriel, who’s about four now and pining for her mother. No prizes for guessing what happens next. Pearl and George get married and have a baby boy, putting poor Muriel even further down the pecking order. Whatever little attention George used to pay to Muriel now goes to his son.”

She suddenly broke off, staring across the patio.

“That’s odd. I could have sworn I saw Sophie watching us from the bar. I’ve never known her to come in here.”

Helen turned around, but Sophie was gone.

“Where was I?” said Martha.

“They had a baby boy,"

“Right. His name was Adam,” said Martha, signaling to the waitress for refills. “At the end of the war, they ship Muriel off to boarding school.”

“I feel sorry for this girl,” Helen said, shaking her head. “But where does the murder come in?”

Martha smiled mischievously.

“Was there even a murder? Fast forward to 1950. Muriel’s fourteen and Adam is five. George is now in poor health. Josie frequently overhears Pearl taunt Muriel by telling her that she and Adam are George’s primary heirs and that Muriel will only receive a small allowance according to George’s will. That summer, Muriel is home from boarding school for the holidays. She’s always been kind to Adam, despite his mother’s treatment of her. They go for a walk in the woods and pick a bouquet of wildflowers, which they arrange in a vase and place in Adam’s room. It’s a hot summer evening, so the bedroom window’s partially open. A bee flies in and stings Adam, who dies of an anaphylactic reaction.”

Helen stared in horror.

“Did she know Adam was allergic to bee stings?”

“According to Pearl, Muriel knew. But Muriel denied all knowledge of it. Then George died. Apparently, there was a mix-up with his medicines. Gosh, I am sorry. I have to go. My boyfriend's picking me up soon. I can show you the house tomorrow if you like. It’s been abandoned for years.”

“Yes, I’d like that,” said Helen.

“Great. I’ll meet you here tomorrow at nine.”

As Helen sat absorbed in thought, the waitress came to clear the table. She glanced around and cleared her throat.

“I recognized you, Ms. Davidson. I love your books. I hope you don’t mind, but I heard you talking about the Halliwells. Would you like to talk to my mother? My Grandma Josie was the one who worked in the house.”

“Really?” said Helen eagerly.

“Yes, I’m about to finish my shift. I’m sure my ma would be thrilled. I’m Marion, by the way.”

Marion led Helen through the village.

“This is such a quaint place,” Helen said, gazing at the stone cottages with their thatched roofs.

“Yes, if you’re a city stockbroker or tech bro coming down for the weekends,” said Marion. “The rest of us are lucky if we can afford a dog kennel.”

As they turned the corner into a street of modest brick homes, Helen thought she saw Sophie behind them.

“Get over it,” she muttered. “A couple of glasses of wine and you’re hallucinating.”

“Pardon?” said Marion.

“Er, nothing,” said Helen, embarrassed. “Just thinking out loud.”

“We were lucky that we inherited this house from Grandma Josie,” Marion said as she opened the front door. “Ma, come and meet someone special.”

A sprightly grey-haired lady entered the room, looking puzzled. Marion grinned.

“This is Helen Davidson, Ma. The lady that writes those murder books you like so much. This is my mother, Cathy. Ms. Davidson’s going to write a book about the Halliwells. Have a seat and I’ll put the kettle on.”

“Well, I never,” said Cathy. “What do you want to know?”

“I understand your mother worked for the Halliwells?” said Helen.

“Yes, she did,” said Cathy. “Not by choice, mind. There weren’t many options for young girls in those days and her family was poor, so she made the best of it. That Mr. George was as crooked as a bent hairpin. She said there were some right sleazy characters showed up at the house for so-called business meetings. She felt sorry for Miss Louise, and she didn’t believe she ran away with a soldier. That was just too convenient for Mr. George. But who was going to listen to someone like her? And she couldn’t stand Pearl. Hard as nails, she was, and out for herself. Baby Adam was her meal ticket. It might not sound nice, but she thought that was why Pearl was upset when Adam died.”

Marion returned carrying mugs of tea and a plate of shortbread.

“What did Josie think of Muriel? Did she think Muriel would have harmed her brother?”

Marion and Cathy exchanged glances.

“Poor Muriel had a rough go of it, what with her mother disappearing and all. But Mother said she was a sly, secretive little girl, always lurking around and eavesdropping. Adam had a bad reaction the year before from a bee sting, but Muriel was away at school at the time, and nobody could prove she knew about it. It wasn’t like George and Pearl kept in touch with her much,” said Cathy.

Marion cleared her throat and held out a book and a pen.

“Ms. Davidson, would you mind autographing this for me?”

“Of course not, and please call me Helen,” said Helen, smiling as she scrawled her signature on the front page. “Did your grandmother ever talk about how George died?”

“Yes,” said Marion. “He had pills to put under his tongue when he got chest pain. It came on him one evening, but the pills didn’t do any good. Turns out they had expired. Pearl swore she had just filled the prescription and blamed Muriel for switching the bottles, which she denied. By the time the doctor got there, it was too late.”

Helen shook her head.

“My goodness, what an unlucky family. I hope Pearl and Muriel escaped the jinx.”

Cathy shook her head.

“Pearl got electrocuted the next year. It was wintertime and she was taking a bath. She had a little electric heater in the bathroom that fell in the water. That house was an ice box in winter. There was no central heating. Mother said you could see your breath indoors on a winter morning.”

Helen raised her brows.

“What about Muriel?”

Cathy shrugged.

“I don’t know. There were inquests and all that and afterwards she moved away. I think she went to stay with distant cousins somewhere. She would have been quite wealthy if she lived as she would have inherited all George’s money.”

Helen rose to go.

“Thank you very much for your hospitality. You’ve given me plenty of food for thought.”

The following morning, she was blearily drinking coffee in the dining room of the Boar’s Head when Martha showed up.

“Are you alright?” Martha said, looking at her in concern.

“Bad night. Weird dreams,” said Helen. She relayed the events that Marion and Cathy had told her about.

“Yes, sorry, I didn’t have time to get into that yesterday,” said Martha. “Very unfortunate events, and the only common denominator was that Muriel was present each time.”

"But Muriel was just a child," said Helen. "You're not suggesting that she..."

They both looked up in surprise as someone hailed them.

“Good morning, ladies,” said Sophie, her blue eyes twinkling. “Are you going for a walk this morning? May I join you?”

“Yes, of course,” said Helen. “Martha is going to show me the old Halliwell house. I understand it’s been abandoned.”

“No one wanted to live in a big old place like that, especially after all the bad things that happened there,” said Martha. “It’s become a problem with teenagers hanging out there, drinking and vandalizing it. As a matter of fact, it’s due for demolition soon. Some investor wants to build on the site.”

The villa was a ten-minute walk outside the village, set in an overgrown field that must have been a garden. They cautiously picked their way through the long grass, gazing up at the once imposing structure, now a dilapidated shell with empty gaping windows. Helen snapped a few pictures with her phone while Martha wandered round to the rear of the building, blithely ignoring the signs that warned of loose masonry. Helen turned to see Sophie staring at the house as if in a trance, a strange expression on her face. She blinked as Helen spoke her name.

“Oh, don’t mind me, dear. I was miles away. Has this visit been useful for your book?”

Helen sighed.

“I’m not sure. I write about true crime. What happened to George, Pearl and Adam doesn’t seem to be criminal.”

“Don’t forget about Louise,” said Sophie softly. “Don’t forget about Louise.”

She turned and walked away, leaving Helen staring after her. Martha reappeared from the other side of the house.

“What was all that about? Where did Sophie go?”

“Martha, is it true that no one knows what happened to Muriel?” said Helen.

“I’m sure you could track her down, especially nowadays with so much information online,” said Martha.

“I was just thinking that Muriel would be around Sophie’s age now. What do you know about Sophie?”

Martha shrugged.

“Nothing really, now that you mention it, except that she’s retired. She chit chats but she never talks about personal stuff.”

“I think I have work to do,” said Helen. “Thank you so much for all your help.”

A month later, back at work in her own home, Helen got up from her desk for a coffee break. She was waiting for the kettle to boil when her phone rang.

“Helen, it’s me, Martha. They just demolished the Halliwell place and you'll never guess what they found."

“What’s going on?” said Helen.

“They found a skeleton under the basement floor. They think it’s female, from the period and about the age Louise Halliwell was when she disappeared. There’s your true crime.”

“ I think you’re right,” said Helen. “This explains a lot. What did Sophie say about it?”

“That’s the other thing,” said Martha. “Sophie’s gone. Moved away, no forwarding address. No one knows where she is.”

“Well, if you ever see her, tell her I won’t forget Louise,” said Helen.

‘