Michael Cox (18 page)

11

An Announcement in
The Times

I
An Invitation Rejected

A
LIGHTING FROM
Mr Pilgrim’s cab in Brook Street, I ran the short way back to Grosvenor Square, not wishing anyone to see that I had returned in a hansom-cab.
‘You’ll be all right now, missy,’ said my new friend, as I got down.
‘I believe I shall, Mr Pilgrim,’ I replied.
‘Well, you get along, then,’ said he, affecting a kind of fatherly sternness, but failing utterly. ‘I’ve got a livin’ to make. But if you ever go a-ramblin’ agin, missy, where you really oughtn’t, I ’opes as ’ow you’ll seek out the transportation services of S. Pilgrim if you can – allus to be found, when not engaged with paying clients, at the stand in Fleet Street, where you was fortunate enough to find ’im today. Place of residence hard by, if required – Shoe Lane, number four. Knock and ask for Sol.’
And with that, he gave a flick of his whip, and drove off.
Reaching the house, I ran down the area steps into the kitchen, where I found Mr Pocock and Barrington in conversation.
‘Good-evening, Miss Gorst,’ said the butler. ‘We were worried where you’d got to. Her Ladyship has been asking for you.’
He gave me a warning wink, to signal my Lady’s displeasure that, yet again, I had failed to attend her at the time she had specified. I hastily thanked Mr Pocock for the use of his guide-book and map, and, with Barrington’s expressionless eye upon me, hurried up to my room.
My dress being uncomfortably wet, and reeking of tobacco smoke from the Antigallican, I quickly changed into my only other gown, and then ran down – heart beating with anxiety, hot and a little bilious after my adventures in Dark House Lane – to my Lady’s boudoir on the second floor.
There was no reply to my knock; and so I knocked again, and then softly entered.
The first room was empty, but the door to the adjoining bed-chamber stood ajar. To this I now proceeded, and knocked once more.
‘Who is it?’
Her voice was agitated, and I heard the distinct sound of rustling paper.
‘Alice, my Lady.’
‘Wait. I shall be out presently.’
As I withdrew, I smiled to see that a black veil had been thrown over the arm of the sofa.
When my Lady came out of the bed-chamber, her usually pale face had a slight redness about the cheeks, and I noticed that she was wearing her spectacles, as if she had been reading.
‘Where have you been?’ she asked, seating herself with her back towards the street window.
‘I’m sorry, my Lady. It was necessary to take shelter for some time from the rain, and then—’
‘Enough!’ she cried, angrily cutting me short. ‘This simply will not do, Alice. It has now gone half past five, and you were told to be here by five o’clock. You know I cannot abide unpunctuality, and this is the third time you have disappointed me. I was lenient with you last time, but you’ll receive no wages for today. Now, tell me where you have been.’
I had expected to be quizzed by her, and so on the way back in Mr Pilgrim’s cab I had prepared myself by reading up on a number of the capital’s most celebrated sights in Mr Pocock’s guide-book.
‘I went to the Cathedral, my Lady.’
‘To St Paul’s? That’s quite a distance. Did you walk?’
‘Yes, my Lady.’
‘And did you consider it worth the effort?’
‘Oh yes, my Lady. Well worth it.’
‘It has been many years since I was last there,’ she said, with a musing sigh as she slowly removed her spectacles. ‘Did you go up to the Whispering Gallery?’
‘Yes, my Lady.’
‘Any further?’
‘No, my Lady.’
‘You can go up higher, you know. Much higher. Right into the clouds, or so it feels.’
She then fell silent, and sat for several seconds looking towards the fire, her spectacles dangling carelessly from her hand.
‘Miss Lucasta Bligh and her sister, Miss Serena Bligh, elderly relatives on my mother’s side, are dining with us tonight,’ she said presently, in a flat, indifferent tone, still looking into the flames, ‘and also Mr Roderick Shillito, a former school-friend of Mr Phoebus Daunt’s, whom I have not seen for several years. Mr Vyse will also be joining us.’
The mention of Mr Vyse momentarily unnerved me, and I felt my colour begin to rise.
‘Is anything the matter, Alice?’ asked Lady Tansor. ‘You look a little flushed.’
‘It’s nothing, my Lady. Only the exertion of running back.’
Further awkward questions were cut short by a knock at the door, and in walked Mr Perseus Duport, carrying a newspaper.
‘Thank you, dear,’ said Lady Tansor, taking the paper from him. He then turned to me, paused for a moment, and cleared his throat.
‘Have you had a pleasant afternoon, Miss Gorst?’
My Lady, suddenly enlivened, answered for me.
‘Alice has been to St Paul’s, and goodness knows where else, and on such a horrid day! I forgot to ask you, Alice dear, what else did you see on your walk through the rain?’
I fancied that I could detect some vague insinuation in her voice, although she was smiling now. I quickly thought back to some of the sights I had picked out of
Murray’s Guide
.
‘I saw Nelson’s Column, my Lady, and of course the National Gallery – although I did not go in – as I passed through Trafalgar Square on my way to the Cathedral. And then, on the way back, I walked down from the Strand to the Temple Gardens.’
‘Oh, I adore the Temple,’ said Lady Tansor. ‘Such a romantic place! You know that the Wars of the Roses are said to have begun in the Gardens? But of course I see from your face that you do. I forget sometimes how clever you are.’
‘The Temple is indeed a romantic place, my Lady,’ I agreed; ‘but then I suppose that the other old Inns of Court are too. I should like very much to see Lincoln’s Inn, which I have read is very beautiful.’
To my great satisfaction, she momentarily coloured up, and was obliged to turn away, seemingly to place the newspaper on a nearby table, in order to hide her discomfort; but she quickly composed herself, clapped her hands gaily, and told Mr Perseus that he must leave us so that she might dress for dinner.
‘Perhaps, Miss Gorst,’ he said at the door, in a manner that suggested he had been considering his words carefully, ‘if my mother is willing to grant you a few hours’ more liberty while we are in Town, you might allow me to conduct you to see the pictures at the National Gallery, which you did not see today? You really ought to see them, you know. There are some very fine works there. Are you fond of paintings?’
Feeling that my Lady would not approve of her maid’s accepting such an invitation from her son, although I would dearly liked to have done so, I declined, with due deference, justifying my refusal by saying that my duties would not allow me any more liberty. Why it distressed me to observe a marked, though fleeting, look of disappointment pass over Mr Perseus’s face, I could not say; but it was soon apparent that I had been right not to give in to my own rather warm inclinations.
‘Alice is quite right,’ said Lady Tansor approvingly, giving her son a sharp look. ‘In fact, I wish to return to Evenwood as soon as possible. I am growing to hate London. How anyone can bear to live here for more than a few days is quite beyond me. We have been here only a matter of hours, and already the place is making me feel quite ill. We shall stay tomorrow, of course, to complete the arrangements with Mr Freeth; but I shall return to the country on Thursday. You may stay if you wish, Perseus. Come, Alice.’
With these words, she beckoned me to follow her into the bed-chamber, leaving Mr Perseus standing, cold-faced, by the door.

WHEN HER TOILET was completed to her satisfaction, my Lady gave me my instructions for the evening.
‘You may take your supper with Pocock and the others, when dinner is over,’ she said. ‘Until then, there is some mending to do. I have noticed a tear on the sleeve of the dress I wore last week, when I called on Miss Bristow. You remember the one? Good. I am a little disappointed, however, to have to bring this to your attention. You should really have noticed it yourself when you packed it. But let that pass.’
‘Thank you, my Lady,’ I said, bowing my head contritely, but feeling very much annoyed by the reprimand.
‘You might also black the patent boots I wore today,’ she went on. ‘They have got rather dirtied in the rain.’
‘Will that be all, my Lady?’
‘Yes – no, wait. I have noticed that the combs and hair-brushes I keep here are in a very bad state – I never could get Miss Plumptre to understand the importance of cleanliness in such things. Wash them through, would you, Alice?’
Such tasks are part and parcel of the duties of every lady’s-maid; but it was plain that, in laying them on me that evening, Lady Tansor had wished to reassert her authority over me, and to remind me of my station. Although it went against Madame’s instructions, I had begun to grow a little fond of my mistress; but on occasions like this, when her mood would suddenly change from cordiality to high-handed disdain, the antipathy that Madame had encouraged me to feel towards her would begin to stir within me. Now, in the face of another display of haughtinesss, I felt it stirring again, even though I knew that I must go on playing the role of the acquiescent lady’s-maid.
‘And please to make the bedroom fire ready before you go to supper,’ she was now saying. ‘Miss Lucasta and Miss Serena Bligh will not stay late, and so I shall retire early, and leave the gentlemen to their cigars and brandy. Ah, there’s the front door. Someone has arrived.’

II
A Discovery

TIRED AND HUNGRY, having nearly completed my penance by blacking my Lady’s boots and washing her combs and brushes, I was sitting before the fire in her richly furnished boudoir, mending the tear in her dress, and thinking over the events of the day.
Laying aside my needle and thread, I sat back, kicked off my shoes, and placed my stockinged feet on the fender to warm my toes.
The square outside was silent. Only the ticking of the long-case clock in the corner of the room, and the distant sound of occasional laughter from the guests downstairs, disturbed the stillness. As I luxuriated in the warm silence, my mind returned to Madame’s second letter.
My Lady’s secrets – like all secrets, or so I have read somewhere – may long to be told; but they must also be searched out. I must turn spy. Cupboards and drawers must be opened; pockets rummaged through; bags and cases and purses turned out, and their contents examined. Why not start immediately, here in her town-house?
For half an hour, keeping my ears open, and with one eye on the door in case my mistress should return unexpectedly, I went about the room, examining each piece of furniture in turn. I then did the same in the bed-chamber, opening everything, searching with the greatest diligence; but I discovered nothing.
Overcome with fatigue and chagrin, I threw myself on my Lady’s bed. How did Madame expect me to uncover proof of my Lady’s crimes if she did not tell me what those crimes were? How could I find what was required if I did not know what I was seeking?
I remained in this baffled and impotent state for several minutes until my eye was caught by something protruding from beneath the pillow, not six inches from where I lay.
I reached forward and pulled it out.
It was a folded piece of paper, on which were a few lines of writing:
I am relieved that you will soon be returning to the country. London is a dangerous place. Only last Sunday (of all days), as I believe I mentioned to you this afternoon, a woman was found, with terrible injuries, in the Thames. Shocking. If you have not yet seen it, you may read an account of the outrage in yesterday’s
Times,
page six. What a world it is!
As I read the note again, it seemed to take on the character of a cipher. There was another meaning here, skulking beneath the surface, which I was unable to discern. Replacing the note under the pillow, I returned to the sitting-room.
The newspaper that Mr Perseus had brought up for his mother still lay on the table by the window. It was of course the previous day’s edition of
The Times
, and was open at page six. Towards the bottom of the page, the following notice instantly caught my eye:

HORRIBLE MURDER

As briefly reported in yesterday’s edition, on Sunday last, 17th September, the body of a woman was found in the Thames, near Nicholson’s Wharf. She had been most fearfully mutilated about the throat. The woman has now been identified as Mrs Barbarina Kraus, aged sixty-four years, of Chalmers Street, Borough.
On the previous Friday, Mrs Kraus had been seen leaving the Antigallican public-house in the vicinity of Billingsgate, having gone out that morning in order, she told her son, to meet an old friend.
Her son, Conrad Kraus, became alarmed when she did not return that evening, and the next morning requested the landlady of the lodging-house in which they resided, Mrs Jessie Turripper, to alert the police.
The authorities have so far uncovered no clue as to the identity of the friend that the victim said she intended to visit, and robbery is not thought to have been the motive for the fatal assault. The victim had lived for some years in straitened circumstances with her son, and was carrying no money.
From the condition of the body, the opinion of the police surgeon is that it had been thrown into the water not more than a day before its discovery.
The investigation continues, under Inspector Alfred Gully, of the Detective Department.
Two things in the report immediately seized my attention. The first was the mention of the Antigallican, where I had lately witnessed Mr Armitage Vyse in close conference with Billy Yapp, a known killer. The second was that the victim’s initials had been ‘B.K.’
It seemed altogether too great a coincidence. Mrs Barbarina Kraus, last seen alive leaving the Antigallican public-house, had the same initials as the old woman my Lady had said was Bertha Kennedy, her former nurse-maid. If they proved to belong to the same person, then it followed that my mistress and Mr Vyse had been involved in her murder.
I had no time to consider this dreadful conclusion further, for just then a noise on the landing sent me running back to my chair by the fire. Picking up my work, I had only just assumed an attitude of innocent industry when in walked Mr Perseus Duport.

III
An Instance of Wounded Pride