A Metropolitan Murder (22 page)

And finally, plum pudding and cheesecakes; baked apples and ice creams.

Clara presents them upon the table with fresh napkins.

The bell is rung for the last time and Clara returns to the dining-room.

‘I must compliment your cook, Harris, once again,' says Mr. Carpenter, a crumb of plum pudding upon his lips.

‘Indeed, I second that,' says the young man. ‘The food is excellent. You have excellent servants, all in all, I dare say, Doctor.'

Clara blushes at this remark, since the speaker's gaze is plainly directed at her as she moves round the table, collecting the plates and cutlery. Mrs. Harris looks at her guest with raised eyebrows, whereas her husbands smiles, raising his wine glass to his lips.

‘There, my dear boy,' says Harris, his voice a little slurred with a surfeit of alcohol, ‘is a tale to be told. But I dare say you are right, sir. Eh, Clara?'

Clara nods, not looking at her employer, a hot flush of embarrassment rising under her collar, hurrying to collect the last few plates. But then it happens; something catches her foot as she comes to the young man; her balance goes awry, and one plate, mercifully no more, slips from its position on the tray and spills its contents into the man's lap, melted ice-cream smearing his jacket and shirt. She cannot catch it for fear of losing the rest, and, in a moment, the room is utterly, dreadfully still.

‘White!'

The unforgiving voice of Clara's mistress, as angry and strident as ever, breaks the awful silence. Clara puts the tray down, uncertain what to do.

‘Sir, I am so sorry . . .'

She stammers the words, but the man waves his hand nonchalantly, as if to dismiss the matter.

‘Really, do not trouble yourself. Do you have something to remove the stain?'

‘Cook might have something, ma'am,' says Clara, eagerly, looking at her mistress for permission to retreat.

‘Hurry and get it, then, you wretched girl,' says Mrs. Harris, her face fixed into a rigid look of profound displeasure with which Clara is quite familiar enough. She sets off to retrieve whatever chemicals Cook can conjure up, but the young man gets up from the table.

‘Wait a moment,' he says, turning to his hostess. ‘Ma'am, I'll go myself, if you do not mind. That will be less trouble, surely? And I can pay my compliments to your delightful cook.'

‘Are you sure, sir?' asks the doctor.

‘Yes, by all means.'

‘Well, Clara,' Dr. Harris says, ‘show the gentleman the way. Do what you can for him, eh?'

Clara nods, her face now bright red, and leads the young man from the room.

‘Unorthodox young fellow, isn't he?' comments Dr. Harris.

Clara says nothing on the stairs, and it is only as they reach the hallway that the young man speaks.

‘We've met before, you know.'

‘Sir?'

‘You don't remember me? I suppose you were a little flustered. Yesterday, on Serle Street, when you fell down.'

She turns and looks at him, perplexed, as the moment comes back to her. He nods, as if to indicate he understands her confusion.

‘I was dressed a little differently, but it was me, I assure you.'

‘Sir?'

‘I am sorry, I am confusing you. Look, it is difficult, but you should understand that I came here to see you and you alone. But we can hardly talk now. We have ice-cream to dispose of, after all. I just wanted to tell you that I will come back tomorrow.'

‘Tomorrow, sir? I cannot . . .'

‘Tomorrow. Your master and mistress are at Sydenham, they told me. I will come back in the evening when they are out, and we may talk then.'

Clara looks at him. ‘Sir, I don't know what you want from me, and I don't know what Dr. Harris might have said, but I ain't the sort of girl who . . .'

‘Who follows old women and thieves their purses?'

‘Sir?' she says, her voice trembling.

‘I followed you from Serle Street. I know exactly the sort of girl you are. That is precisely why you intrigue me. And that is why we must talk tomorrow.'

Clara says nothing, feeling unsteady on her feet.

‘Come,' he says, taking her arm, ‘I mean you no harm. Know that much. Now, you best go and warn your worthy cook that I intend to meet her.'

She looks at him blankly.

‘Come on. And I am sorry for tripping you, but,' he says, looking down at his shirt, ‘but I believe I had the worst of it.'

It is ten o'clock when a carriage arrives for the Carpenters. Mr. Phibbs, meanwhile, announces that he will depart on foot, despite numerous protestations from his hosts that he must obtain the services of a hansom. At the door, Clara hands him his hat and
coat, and, just for a moment, she can almost swear that he winks at her.

Once all three guests have left, however, there is a lecture from Mrs. Harris; it revolves principally around the many reasons why it is unwise for a housemaid to spill food upon young gentlemen; why a particular housemaid is ungrateful and unreasoning; and why must that particular housemaid induce a migraine in all those who try to help her improve herself?

All in all, the talk does not last too long, since Mrs. Harris declares herself positively exhausted.

Then comes the washing of plates and saucepans, a task Clara shares with Alice Meynell, until the hands and wrists of both women are chapped and aching.

At twelve o'clock, Alice goes to bed. Clara lingers for a moment in the kitchen, thinking about the strange insistence of the young man as he spoke to her.

‘I mean you no harm.'

Then there is a knock upon the kitchen door.

C
LARA LOOKS UP
, startled. In the dim light of the gas, with rain still falling outside, the prospect of a nocturnal visitor instantly fills her mind with unwelcome visions of area-sneaks and burglars, and halfremembered ghost stories. Then it occurs to her that the strange young man has returned. It takes her a moment to realise, amidst the pitter-patter of the rain, that she can hear a female voice calling her name.

‘Clara? Are you there? Don't jump. It's me. Let us in; I'm soaking.'

Clara looks in the direction of the door. Peering through the kitchen window, she can make out a figure standing in the rain. As she catches sight of the visitor's features, it somehow takes a few seconds for the face to register in her mind.

‘Lizzie?'

‘Come on. Who did you think?'

Clara unbolts the door. The girl that walks in is somewhat different from Clara's memory of her. Her girlish face is, undoubtedly, older and wearier, and she is, as far as Clara can recall, also a little taller. Clara stands back and stares at her.

‘Lizzie?' she says, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘Look at you!'

‘Have I changed that much, then?'

‘You have. You look so much like ma,' she replies, ‘but when she was younger.'

Lizzie Hunt frowns. She unwraps her shawl from around her shoulders, shaking her head, dripping water on the stone floor.

‘Well,' she says, ‘if you say so. This is a fine halloa. Can't you start a fire up or something? I'll catch my death in here.'

‘A fire? Not this time of night,' says Clara, taking the shawl and draping it over one of the kitchen chairs. ‘Come here, stand by the range; that'll be hot enough.'

Lizzie does as suggested, standing with her back to the stove, looking round the room. As she does so, Clara notices a large black bruise around her wrist, and another on her neck, partially concealed by her trailing brown hair.

‘Here,' she says, peering, ‘who did that?'

‘No-one. Just an accident, that's all.'

Clara looks at her skeptically, but lets the topic rest for the moment.

‘It's good to see you.'

‘You too.'

‘You'll get us into trouble, you know,' says Clara, ‘coming here like this.'

‘Trouble? You've changed your tune, ain't you?' says Lizzie. ‘Ma used to say you was the fearless one.'

‘It's just that it's a good place here. I don't want to lose my character.'

‘Your “character”?'

‘Maybe I have changed. Maybe for the better, anyhow. What about you?'

‘What about me?'

‘Are you all right?'

‘Yes, as it goes,' Lizze says, ‘apart from being bleeding soaked.'

‘That ain't what I mean. I mean, in yourself,' replies
Clara. ‘Where have you been all these months? You could have sent word.'

‘Here and there.'

‘With Tom?'

‘Yes, with Tom.'

Clara sighs, pointedly avoiding her sister's gaze. ‘And where are you stopping now?'

‘Tom's cousin's. He's got a room, off Saffron Hill.'

‘Has he? Lizzie, tell us, why did you run off like that? Tom Hunt of all people.'

‘He's been good to me.'

‘I'll believe that when I see it. Does he thump you?'

‘Not much. No more than most, I expect.'

‘That ain't what it looks like.'

Lizzie scowls at her sister. ‘What do you know anyway? You've never had anyone sweet on you, have you?'

‘That ain't nothing to do with it. I just don't want you to get hurt. I know Tom well enough, don't I? He ain't good for you. Nor anyone else, for that matter.'

‘I reckon I should never have come here,' replies Lizzie, tutting to herself. ‘I thought you'd be pleased to see us.'

‘I am.'

Clara sits down at the kitchen table and rubs her forehead with her palms.

‘How are you managing?' she finally continues. ‘Does he give you money? I ain't got anything I can spare. Not at the moment, anyhow.'

‘Good, because I don't need it. I can take care of myself.'

She says it proudly and her sister looks at her from between her fingers, still pressed to her head.

‘How?'

‘How do you think?' she says, pushing back her hair from her face. ‘I got my looks, ain't I?'

It takes a moment for Clara to grasp the meaning of her sister's words; she closes her eyes and mutters an oath to herself.