Page 9 of The Six Murders of Daphne St Clair

DAPHNE: Not in my experience, no. He raped me. And afterwards he showed me out and told me to keep the wine a secret or else people might think I was a bad girl. He didn’t say anything about the rape because he knew I couldn’t tell anyone about that.

RUTH: What a disgusting person. Do you think he did it to others?

DAPHNE: He probably did. People just didn’t talk about it back then.

No one gave girls the words to say it out loud.

After that I walked home. My legs shook and the wind threw me around like I was made of paper.

I remember that I shut my eyes against the wind and then I just kept them like that, walking blind into the gusts.

That day was the last day I felt whole.

. . It killed something in me. I lost my faith.

RUTH: In God?

DAPHNE: Oh no, I never believed in that . But in people.

RUTH: Do you think you would have become a murderer if that hadn’t happened? Could you have found some way to move on, to put it all behind you, even if the people who hurt you never faced justice?

DAPHNE: Well, that’s a heavy question. I’m not sure.

It’s not exactly a math equation. The preacher wasn’t the first and he wasn’t the last to hurt me like that.

But there was something particularly evil about what he did.

That rape killed the old me. And I guess I’ve been killing the preacher ever since.

That night at home I lay in bed, praying that my dad would stay passed out because I felt like I would lose my mind if another man tried to touch me.

I was surrounded by my sleeping siblings, all mashed into bed with me like puppies, and usually their warm, squirming bodies (which smelled faintly of pee) would have lulled me to sleep, but I was wide awake.

I stared up at the blackness and tried to breathe deeply, even as the room seemed to fill with sour air.

My whole life I had just accepted what I’d been given, even though it was usually shit in a cereal bowl.

Now, though, I lay in bed with my good sweater stuffed between my legs, trying to dull the pain that came from deep inside me and seemed to echo through the room with every throb.

Why did I deserve this? I had tried in school, I had helped the scrawny kids when the bigger kids picked on them, I dried my siblings’ tears and made them laugh when it didn’t seem like anything could make them smile.

Why should I let people like my father and the preacher crush me?

Why should I wait around for my own no-good husband to give me a shack of battered children?

It all felt so simple and clear. In that moment I knew that I had two choices: kill myself or leave. Because I couldn’t watch the sun go down again in Lucan, Saskatchewan.

The next day, Sunday, I got up early, before any of my siblings started stirring, and crept out of the house.

I didn’t bother taking anything with me because everything I owned was shared among my siblings.

I already felt guilty enough leaving them, knowing that so few would ever escape.

I felt especially bad for the girls, but I knew there was nothing I could do.

They were too small to take with me. Instead, I took one last look at my sisters and brothers, all crammed into bed, their little faces peeking out, and then I left.

I wish I could tell you that I felt all kinds of dramatic emotions but, in that moment, I just felt numb.

Some part of me wanted to curl up in a ditch and die, but my feet kept walking, and my eyes followed the road to town, and somehow, I made it there.

By the time I arrived, the preacher, along with most of the good townspeople in Lucan, was at church.

My family didn’t go very often, although sometimes I went by myself because I liked the music.

I went to the preacher’s house (nobody locked their doors in Lucan) and walked right in.

The house was two stories and while it wouldn’t be large by today’s standards, it seemed incredibly grand to a girl from a one-room shack on the outskirts of town.

The living room was cluttered with glass vases, porcelain ornaments, a real piano, and a thick, plush rug that sank beneath my weight.

This whole house was like a museum of things that I’d never had.

I moved through the preacher’s house, imagining sending his glass vases toppling like dominoes, swinging an axe into his writing desk, taking a crap on his velvet armchair.

My whole body shook with the thought of all that carnage, of how it would feel to take all my rage and send it careening through his beautiful home.

There was even a dark part of me that fantasized about waiting until he got home and using the same axe to reduce him to kindling.

But instead, I clenched my fists and glanced at the grandfather clock.

I had less than an hour before I needed to be on the train platform for the 10:15 to Moose Jaw.

I could choose revenge, or I could choose freedom, but I could only have one.

I climbed the stairs carefully, having very little experience with staircases. Pictures were hung above the steps, portraits of dour-looking relations of the preacher and a few of a sad-eyed girl with wispy blonde hair.

First, I took all the money I could find in the house.

It was enough for my train fare and a few weeks’ room and board.

I was still upstairs, prowling around, when I noticed an old wardrobe in the guest bedroom.

I swung the doors open slowly and found it stuffed with women’s things: dresses, coats, even a simple white wedding dress.

I knew immediately that it was the dead wife’s possessions.

How lonely she must have felt, far from home, sharing a house with a monster.

I pulled out her old valise, my fingers fumbling as I hurried, and filled it with her clothes.

I even changed out of my dirty dress and boots, stuffing them inside the bag, just in case I needed them someday, and put on a green dress and a pair of leather shoes with a small heel.

The dress fit perfectly, and it felt like the dead woman was giving me her blessing.

She had died in this house, surrounded by these things, but she wanted me to take them and live.

I walked out of the room with the suitcase and paused in front of the preacher’s bedroom as if in a trance. I stuck my fingers inside of myself, aware that I was still bleeding from the attack. Then I reached out and smeared my hand down his bedspread.

Soon, I was on the train, tucked up against a window, seeing Lucan pass by for the last time. I clutched the valise and made a solemn promise to myself that no matter how bad things got, I would never go back.

RUTH (Voiceover): All was quiet for a second, after Daphne talked about running away from home.

Her body language was closed off. Daphne was sitting with her arms folded and her lips pressed together, as if she couldn’t risk any more words tumbling out.

She looked furious and yet, somehow, defiant.

I wasn’t sure what to say after these revelations.

They were terrible experiences, and yet this woman had done monstrous things, likely more than she’d confessed to.

I didn’t want to like her, didn’t want to sympathize with her, but it was hard not to in these circumstances. Finally, I just kept going.

RUTH: Where did you go?

DAPHNE: Well, from Moose Jaw, I got a ticket to Regina, and then from there a ticket to Winnipeg. I wanted to be out of Saskatchewan and Winnipeg was one province over. I didn’t want to spend too much money, but I wished I could have gone farther, somewhere I’d never see another farmer.

RUTH: Did you ever see your family again?

DAPHNE: No. I don’t think about them.

RUTH: Come on, you must think about your sisters and brothers. Or your mother? Think of all the nieces and nephews, the great-nieces and great-nephews you have now. Some could even be in America. Don’t you want to find them?

DAPHNE: No. I’m not a Cowell anymore; I haven’t been since 1948.

RUTH: What if I did some research? Started contacting them? It would be great to get some background.

DAPHNE: Why are you so gung-ho to talk to people from my past? You’ve already landed a whale, what do you care about some small fry? I told you to drop it!

RUTH: Why does it bother you so much? Is it the idea of people talking about you? Or are you worried they might tell me something you don’t want people to know?

DAPHNE: Me? Worried? Don’t be ridiculous! I’m not hiding anything! I just don’t want you going behind my back!

RUTH (Voiceover): Daphne seemed angry and I worried that she was hiding something, keeping a few skeletons tucked away from all of us.

But I wondered if she was also scared to find out what happened to her family, how her siblings may have suffered after she left.

As long as she didn’t know for sure, she could pretend that everyone had just blinked out of existence the moment she walked away.

It was an important skill for a budding serial killer, knowing how to erase people.

It was a skill I’m sure many of us wished we had as well.

BurntheBookBurnerz:

So that preacher was a piece of shit. Here’s his obit. He died back in 1972. I hope he’s burning in hell.

StopDropAndTroll:

Well. . . IF you believe her. She could have just made it up for sympathy. ‘Oh boohoo, feel sorry for me. I’m a viccctimmmm.’

BurntheBookBurnerz:

You seriously find it that hard to believe that a MAN RAPED SOMEONE?!?! Or what, is it because he’s a preacher? Because yeah, NO religious dudes EVER rape anyone!?!

CapoteParty:

I think he’s real. I don’t think she would have made up a story where she was the victim.

BurntheBookBurnerz:

What did Ruth mean at the beginning of the episode when she said ‘let’s solve a mystery’? Daphne confessed. What’s the mystery?

StopDropAndTroll:

She just said it to make it all dramatic. She’s a clickbait writer, what do you expect?

ShockAndBlah:

Maybe the mystery is WHY she confessed. I LITERALLY can’t wait for the next podcast!!! This is INSANE!!

TikTok Channel for HauteHistoire: “Hi everyone, my name is Alexis and this is HauteHistoire.

What do you do when you have a passion for fashion, and a BA in History and Literature gathering dust?

You start the TikTok channel for outfits inspired by the silver screen, your phone screen, and everything in between!

“We’ve done it all here, from 1930s gangster fashion à la Bonnie and Clyde to Y2K gangsta fashion from the music video for ’03 Bonnie and Clyde!

Today, I’m excited to announce we’ll be doing a deep dive on Daphne St Clair and the new podcast sensation The Murders of Daphne St Clair .

We’ll be serving looks from every decade of Daphne’s life!

And don’t worry, we won’t be committing any fashion crimes, even if stripes are having a major moment!

So, join us as we follow along with the podcast, exploring how style, like Daphne, can slay all day!

“So, for the first episode I thought we’d start with a cottagecore aesthetic to reflect this glamorous woman’s not-so-glamorous beginnings.

We’re channeling Dorothy in old-timey Kansas, Alexis Bledel in Tuck Everlasting , and the girl in your high school who might have been in a cult.

I’ve chosen an O Pioneers floral dress and toughened it up with some lace-up boots just in case I have to do any farmwork.

Which would be surprising. . . since I live in Brooklyn.

I’m pairing it with a Lack of Colors sunhat to keep out that harsh midwestern sun and, you know, the dust . . . ”