telephoned the Kensington police station to confess to the murder of her daughter. Police arriving at the house found Olivia stabbed to death in her bed; the coroner later reported more than fifty stab wounds to the body. Mrs. Rudge was immediately taken into custody and hence was protected from the crowd of journalists who wished to harry her—the murder of Olivia Rudge had quickly become a front-page speciality of the scandal press which had soon unearthed the past of Olivia’s mother. (“Society Sex Queen Murders Daughter.”) In time, Heather was convicted of murder and sentenced to death. Later her sentence was commuted to life in prison.
Certain questions remain. Why did Heather Rudge kill her daughter? Why was her sentence commuted? Was there a connection with the murder, a year previous, of Geoffrey Braden? Certainly the press had implied such a connection. Newspapers had seized on the case, claiming that Heather Rudge had been driven mad by her daughter; the more sensational papers asserted
that Olivia had taunted her mother with her knowledge of the Braden murder, and that Heather had decided that her daughter could not be permitted to live. In time, Heather, now represented as a victim herself, was found to be insane by a special examining board. She is at present an old woman living in the permanent seclusion of a private mental hospital in Surrey. The questions remainunanswered. Heather Rudge will take the secrets of her daughter’s involvement in the Braden case to her grave. Forgotten by the public, her mind shadowed and confused, Heather Rudge is a living ghost.
Julia’s first thought, after reading this, was an irrelevance: so that’s where those mirrors came from—Heather Rudge, with her wild parties staffed with young men, not the proper McClintocks. Then in the next half second, she knew that she would find out, that she was compelled to find out, everything there was to know about Heather and Olivia Rudge. She read the two pages over again quickly, then flipped back and read them once more, slowly and carefully. Eda Rolph nowhere stated directly that Olivia Rudge had murdered or had helped to murder the Braden boy: what grounds were there for the implication? Julia immediately began to think of how she could discover information about the Rudge case. Newspapers: surely the British Museum, if not a branch library, had newspaper files on microfilm. Could Heather Rudge be living still? She turned to the first pages of the book to look at the publishing information.
The Royal Borough of Kensington
had been published by the Lompoc Press in 1969, five years ago. She might easily be still alive. “… a private mental hospital in Surrey.” How could she find the name of the hospital? Heather Rudge had lived in this house, she had slept in this bedroom; in sleep, her body had occupied the very space Julia’s body now did. Julia seemed to be spinning through time; time seemed plastic, distorted, unsafe: the past seemed to rise up all about her, like a foul gas.
Then she sat upright, her heart speeding. Perhaps Heather Rudge had stabbed Olivia in this very bedroom. Olivia dying as Kate had died, bleeding as though bloodwilled to depart the living body, her blood foaming out over this spot around a hidden corner in time.… Julia nearly bolted from her bed.
But it could not be true. This must have been Heather’s bedroom, she thought; her daughter would have had one of the smaller bedrooms down the hall. And that was where the murder would have been done.
Why am I so interested in this, in these people? Julia thought. Because it will be an explanation.
Julia felt wide-awake, as stimulated as if she’d just had three cups of strong coffee. She wanted to telephone Mark, to see Lily—she wanted to telephone Eda Rolph, to ask her the name of the hospital where Heather Rudge had been kept for the past twenty-four years. But she is here, too, Julia thought, she is part of the character of this house,
Certain questions remain. Why did Heather Rudge kill her daughter? Why was her sentence commuted? Was there a connection with the murder, a year previous, of Geoffrey Braden? Certainly the press had implied such a connection. Newspapers had seized on the case, claiming that Heather Rudge had been driven mad by her daughter; the more sensational papers asserted
that Olivia had taunted her mother with her knowledge of the Braden murder, and that Heather had decided that her daughter could not be permitted to live. In time, Heather, now represented as a victim herself, was found to be insane by a special examining board. She is at present an old woman living in the permanent seclusion of a private mental hospital in Surrey. The questions remainunanswered. Heather Rudge will take the secrets of her daughter’s involvement in the Braden case to her grave. Forgotten by the public, her mind shadowed and confused, Heather Rudge is a living ghost.
Julia’s first thought, after reading this, was an irrelevance: so that’s where those mirrors came from—Heather Rudge, with her wild parties staffed with young men, not the proper McClintocks. Then in the next half second, she knew that she would find out, that she was compelled to find out, everything there was to know about Heather and Olivia Rudge. She read the two pages over again quickly, then flipped back and read them once more, slowly and carefully. Eda Rolph nowhere stated directly that Olivia Rudge had murdered or had helped to murder the Braden boy: what grounds were there for the implication? Julia immediately began to think of how she could discover information about the Rudge case. Newspapers: surely the British Museum, if not a branch library, had newspaper files on microfilm. Could Heather Rudge be living still? She turned to the first pages of the book to look at the publishing information.
The Royal Borough of Kensington
had been published by the Lompoc Press in 1969, five years ago. She might easily be still alive. “… a private mental hospital in Surrey.” How could she find the name of the hospital? Heather Rudge had lived in this house, she had slept in this bedroom; in sleep, her body had occupied the very space Julia’s body now did. Julia seemed to be spinning through time; time seemed plastic, distorted, unsafe: the past seemed to rise up all about her, like a foul gas.
Then she sat upright, her heart speeding. Perhaps Heather Rudge had stabbed Olivia in this very bedroom. Olivia dying as Kate had died, bleeding as though bloodwilled to depart the living body, her blood foaming out over this spot around a hidden corner in time.… Julia nearly bolted from her bed.
But it could not be true. This must have been Heather’s bedroom, she thought; her daughter would have had one of the smaller bedrooms down the hall. And that was where the murder would have been done.
Why am I so interested in this, in these people? Julia thought. Because it will be an explanation.
Julia felt wide-awake, as stimulated as if she’d just had three cups of strong coffee. She wanted to telephone Mark, to see Lily—she wanted to telephone Eda Rolph, to ask her the name of the hospital where Heather Rudge had been kept for the past twenty-four years. But she is here, too, Julia thought, she is part of the character of this house,
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