Splendors and Glooms (40 page)

Mrs. Pinchbeck averted her head and made a little circle with one wrist, as if waving away a tray of sweets. “I often thought Mr. Grisini admired
me,
” she confided. “Only, I could never fancy any man except Mr. Pinchbeck, sir. He was the only man I ever loved.” She shook her head regretfully. “Struck down by an omnibus in ’is prime. I never got over it, and I never
shall
get over it. Lord love you, sir, I know how the faithful ’eart grieves! Which is why I come, sir.”

Dr. Wintermute said, “I’m much obliged, ma’am.” He tried to think of some words of sympathy for the fate of the late Mr. Pinchbeck but found himself unable to concentrate. “You were telling me about the pawnbroker, ma’am?”

“Why, I just
said,
” Mrs. Pinchbeck said irritably, rubbing her nose. “Mr. Grimes said as ’ow Lizzie Rose pawned that gold watch, and he asked me how I’d spent the ten quid so quick. ‘Ten quid!’ I said to him. And he said yes, he’d given ten quid. And I said as ’ow Lizzie Rose ’ad run away, and how it broke my heart, living without her, and the dogs being as bad as dogs can be, sir — which is considerable. And he said as how the girl ’ad been asking about trains to the north country, to this Windermere that’s on the envelope. So I thought to meself, that’s where she went — her and the boy — and who knows but what Grisini might be there, too?”

Dr. Wintermute gazed at the envelope in his hands. It was quivering like a live thing. He forced himself to speak calmly. “It may mean nothing. The whereabouts of the other two children may have nothing to do with Clara.”

“That’s so,” Mrs. Pinchbeck conceded with a lucidity that floored him. “But it might mean everything. It’s a mystery where your daughter’s gone, and a mystery where the other two’ve gone, and maybe it’s one mystery instead of two. Whatever you might say, there ’asn’t been any bodies found, and where there’s life, there’s ’ope. Now, when Mr. Pinchbeck was struck down by the omnibus, he was killed right away.” She gesticulated and made a noise, giving a vigorous and surprisingly vivid impression of wheels rolling over a man’s body. “Crushed the breath out of ’im! There wasn’t any ’ope then, I can tell you. But with your daughter, sir, there isn’t any homnibus, and when there’s no homnibus, there’s ’ope. An’ if I was you, sir, I’d go to this Windermere and start asking questions.”

Dr. Wintermute folded the envelope and put it in his breast pocket. “I shall do so. I’m very much obliged to you, ma’am.” He put his hand back into his pocket. “Pray allow me —”

Mrs. Pinchbeck became coy. The conversation that followed took longer than Dr. Wintermute could have dreamed. Mrs. Pinchbeck insisted that she would not take money from him, all the while pointing out that any other woman as hard up as she was might have felt it her duty to accept a sovereign. Naively Dr. Wintermute assumed that the interview was over, but Mrs. Pinchbeck seemed in no hurry to go away. It was some time before it dawned on Dr. Wintermute that she was waiting for him to force the money upon her. He was quite willing to part with a sovereign or two, but he was even more eager to part with the woman, and it maddened him that she could not be rushed. He argued, coaxed, and sympathized; he emptied his pockets of a five-pound note — and still she would not leave. At last he rang for Bartlett and instructed him to find Mrs. Pinchbeck a hansom cab. By the time Bartlett ushered the woman out, Dr. Wintermute felt that he had been through a long and shattering ordeal. He dropped into the chair before the fire and took out the envelope to study it.

The door opened. Dr. Wintermute raised his head, dreading the reappearance of Mrs. Pinchbeck, but the woman in the doorway was his wife.

“Thomas, who was that very singular woman in the front hall?”

Dr. Wintermute said heavily, “Her name is Mrs. Pinchbeck.”

“Is she — a patient?”

“No. No, my dear, she is not a patient.”

“Why was she here?

Dr. Wintermute could think of no answer but the true one. “She was landlady to Professor Grisini. I questioned her a week or so ago. I encouraged her to come to me if there was any chance — if she thought of anything that might shed light —” He smoothed the envelope between his fingers. “She knows nothing about Clara. I am convinced of that. But it seems that the other two children have also disappeared, and I wanted to question them again. Mrs. Pinchbeck thinks they may have gone north. She gave me an envelope with an address on it. I don’t suppose there’s any real hope —” He tried to speak levelly, but his voice was husky. “All the same, I should like to question them again. I must go to Windermere and see if I can find them.”

Ada crossed the carpet and stood before his chair. She put out her hand for the envelope. He gave it to her, and she took it as if it were precious. “It’s a lady’s handwriting.”

“That struck me, too.” He spoke very calmly, afraid of any word that might cause her to distance herself from him. He was tempted to reach for her hand but held back.

But it was she who reached for him. She knelt down and placed her hands on the arm of his chair. “Thomas, let me come with you.”

He shook his head. “My dear, the journey is a long one, and you haven’t been well. If only — if I could — there is nothing I wouldn’t do if —” He found himself unable to finish his sentence. He knew that he was about to weep and closed his eyes. A drop of warm liquid seeped between his eyelids. All at once, he felt his wife’s touch. She brushed the tear aside, spreading its moisture across the surface of his cheek. Ashamed of his weakness, he opened his eyes.

Ada looked more alive than she had for months. Her mouth was trembling, but her eyes were resolute.

“I’m coming with you,” said Ada, and when he attempted to dissuade her, she pressed her fingers against his lips and would not let him speak.

C
assandra wept. It was the night of the stone’s destruction, and she couldn’t stop crying long enough to fall asleep. She was chilled to the bone, and she couldn’t get warm. She tried to explain this to the strangers that stood around her bed, but her voice was ragged from crying, and the syllables came out in the wrong order. Two girls left the room and came back with their arms full of blankets. An untidy-looking boy put coal on the fire, stimulating it to a mighty roar. It occurred to the witch that the strangers were children, and that was odd: surely her sickbed was no place for children? She looked for the bell cord so that she could ring for the servants.

Her eyes became fixed with terror. Suspended over her head was a yellow monkey. He was shinnying up a golden cord and leering at her cruelly. Cassandra pointed at him and tried to tell the children he should not be there. He was a fiend; he would drag her into hell, where there was no mercy for sinners. But the strangers only looked at her with wonder and pity, and she despaired of making them understand.

She fell into a dream. The monkey was beside her, gibbering and hissing. There was a lake of fire, and a puppet named Grisini danced on the rim of the shore. Marguerite was there, weeping because someone had strangled her little dog. Cassandra opened her eyes, and there was the spaniel, snoring peacefully. She pointed to it and tried to tell Marguerite that all was well. But Marguerite had gone away, and the yellow monkey was smiling at her. Cassandra shifted her gaze to the rope that passed through its body. Traitors were hanged, and she was a traitor. She pawed at her throat, trying to loosen the rope around her neck.

One of the children seized her hands. Cassandra bit her. Then she wept, because the child had beautiful hands, petal soft and clean and strong. Her half circle of ragged teeth marks was an obscenity. But she could not apologize. The children’s faces blurred and went dim, and she was asleep again, weeping still.

When she woke up, the dark-haired girl was standing on a chair beside her bed. The child was using her teeth to loosen the knot in the silk cord. When the knot gave way, the girl pulled the brass monkey over the kinks in the cord.

“What if she misses it?” asked the red-haired girl. “She’s used to having it to open and shut the bed curtains.”

“She won’t miss it,” the other girl said firmly. “It’s giving her nightmares. Anyway, she’ll still have the rope.” She handed the brass statue to the boy. “Take it out of the room, Parse.”

The boy weighed the object in his hands. “It’s int’resting,” he said. “Might be worth two, three shillings.”

“It’s horrid. Take it out,” commanded the dark-haired girl. The boy wrinkled his nose at her, but he took the monkey out of the room. He came back empty-handed.

Cassandra gave a great sigh of relief. She rolled over so that she could pet the red dog. Stroking it, she fell back to sleep.

When Cassandra awakened, one nostril had cleared, and she could breathe through her nose. The inside of her mouth was as dry as wool. Her neck hurt; she had scratched it raw. Dizzily she lifted her head.

The candles had burned out, but the room was not dark, only dim. It was dawn outside, and the children were asleep. Cassandra looked from one to the other, recalling their names. The boy sleeping before the fire was Parsefall. The dark-haired girl in the armchair was Clara. The girl sleeping at the foot of her bed was Lizzie Rose, and the red spaniel belonged to her, not to Marguerite.

Cassandra shifted. The dog stirred and yawned. Lizzie Rose awoke and pushed herself up on one elbow. “Are you more comfortable, ma’am?”

Cassandra consulted the child’s worried face. “Yes.”

Lizzie Rose stretched toward her, laying one hand on Cassandra’s brow. “We’ll send for the doctor today. He’ll make you feel better.”

Cassandra took the girl’s hand, examining it for teeth marks. “I thought I bit you.”

“That was Clara.”

“I can leave you Strachan’s Ghyll, you know.”

Lizzie Rose looked embarrassed. “You needn’t if you don’t want to.”

Cassandra frowned. “If someone offers you something you want, you should take it.” She swallowed, running her tongue over her lips. “I want a glass of wine. Will you get it?”

Lizzie Rose slid off the bed. She tiptoed barefoot across the room. Cassandra watched her with an aching heart. Dear God, but the girl was young: to be able to move so easily, after being up all night! Cassandra accepted the wine, gulping it so that it spilled down her front.

Lizzie Rose took the glass and refilled it with water from the washstand. She moistened a handkerchief and mopped the sticky patch on Cassandra’s chin. Cassandra spoke impatiently: “For God’s sake, child! What good have I ever done you that you should serve me thus?”

Lizzie Rose’s forehead knotted. Cassandra could see her trying in vain to remember one good deed.

“There isn’t anything,” Cassandra said testily. “Mind you, I’ll leave you the house — you and the boy — that’ll be worth something. But first I want to tell you — I must tell someone — what I stole from Marguerite.”

Lizzie Rose sat cross-legged on the bed. “It was the stone, wasn’t it? The fire opal.”

“Yes,” Cassandra said. “It was the stone.”

“It happened more than seventy years ago. It was Marguerite’s birthday, and mine; I was thirteen and she was twelve. It was Carnival time in Venice, and Marguerite’s father persuaded the nuns to have a birthday party at the convent. Marguerite was allowed to invite her six dearest friends. We were all dearest friends — Marguerite was very given to endearments — but I was her dearest,
dearest
friend. Fool that she was, she loved me best.

“It was my birthday, too. I beg you to remember that. Marguerite gave me an ivory fan painted with peasants or nymphs or some such dainty nonsense. It was the only gift I had that day. Before my mother ran away, I always had birthday presents, but my mother didn’t know where I was. I knew there was no chance of a letter from her. I was afraid that my father would forget me, too, so I wrote to remind him of the date. Every day I waited. I even prayed. He sent nothing: no letter, no gift.

“The sixth of November came, the day of Marguerite’s party. Monsieur Tremblay came, and we received him in the nuns’ parlor. There were little cakes and confetti and chocolate to drink. We sat and watched Marguerite open her birthday presents.

“She was giddy with excitement and cooed over her gifts in a way that tried my affection sorely. Her doting papa brought her a large and costly doll — she was still fond of dolls — an Indian shawl, and a leopard-skin muff, which grieved her a little, because, she said, she pitied the poor leopard! I am sure that no leopard ever felt more pitiless than I did at that moment. I wanted to claw her eyes out.

“But I pinned a smile to my face; I gushed and simpered with the rest. Marguerite’s last and best gift was a rosewood box full of pearls. Her father told her that now that she was twelve, she was old enough to have her mother’s jewels. She squeaked with joy and began to adorn herself.

“We all envied her; it wasn’t only me. There were so many pearls. Cream colored and silvery, bracelets and earrings and rings . . . Marguerite loved pearls. I didn’t. I thought they were insipid. But these were so soft looking, so translucent, that they seemed to have no edge. Marguerite passed the jewels around so that we could all try them on. The other girls made peacocks of themselves, trying to see their reflections in the windows — there was no mirror in the nuns’ parlor. But I had my eye on the rosewood box. It was not quite empty. There was a small pasteboard carton left inside. I asked Marguerite what it held, and she told me to open it and see. That was the beginning of my doom, though of course I didn’t know it.