The Taxidermist's Daughter (13 page)

Chapter 20

Main Road

Fishbourne

Connie shook the rain off her umbrella, then went into the post office and general stores. The women queuing at the counter turned, saw her and fell silent.

‘Ladies,’ she said, wiping her feet on the mat.

One of Levi Nutbeem’s sons was behind the counter. ‘I’ll be right with you, Miss Gifford.’

‘Thank you.’

Connie felt the customer at the front of the queue glance over at her, then away. There was something familiar about the woman, but she couldn’t bring to mind where she had run into her.

The tiny shop was stacked floor to ceiling, every square inch accounted for. At the back, next to the post office window, were pails, packets of pins, drums of Zebra blacking and Seidlitz powders. Shelves of tins filled the side wall, and on the long wooden counter, Coburgs and flat tin loaves; a marble slab with blocks of butter, lard and cheese ready to be cut; a brick of salt too. On the floor, hessian bags filled with sugar, loose tea and flour.

Connie watched as Nutbeem twisted a sheet of blue paper to form a cone, turned over the point, then filled it with candied peel, raisins and sultanas.

‘There you go, Polly,’ he said, handing the cone to a little girl hiding shyly in her mother’s skirts.

‘And what about you, Maisie?’

Maisie pointed at the currant buns, displayed in a wooden tray. He nodded, picked one up with his fingers, shook the sugar off, and dropped it into a brown paper bag.

‘Say thank you to the nice man.’

‘Thank you.’

‘It’s my pleasure, little lady. Will there be anything else, Mrs Christie?’

Connie paid more attention now she realised the woman must be Mary’s mother. No wonder she’d thought she recognised her. She had the same pretty, open expression as her daughter.

‘Five rashers of bacon.’

He cut thick slabs from the haunch with a long-blade knife, then wrapped the meat in greaseproof paper and put it straight into Mrs Christie’s shopping bag.

He pushed the chit across the counter, and Mrs Christie counted out the coins.

‘Thank you,’ she said, taking her change. She glanced again at Connie. This time, Connie smiled back.

‘Good morning, Mrs Christie.’

‘Morning, Miss Gifford.’ She held Connie’s gaze for a moment, then turned back to the twins and shooed them out of the shop.

Connie passed her list across the counter. ‘There’s not much.’

Nutbeem’s was mostly used by village families, rather than the private houses who tended to patronise Blake’s, so the customers queuing at the post office counter remained silent. But as Nutbeem worked his way down Connie’s list and the minutes ticked by, the women forgot she was there and went back to their interrupted conversations.

Connie listened with half an ear for any mention of Vera, but they had moved on to parish matters.

‘There’s a lot to carry, Miss Gifford,’ Nutbeem said. ‘I’ve got a deliveryman out this afternoon. We could add you in to the round, if you like.’

Connie smiled at him. Previously, Nutbeem’s and Blake’s had both said that Blackthorn House was too inaccessible for their delivery cart. ‘I’d be very grateful, Mr Nutbeem, it would be a help. I am rather wet already.’

‘My pleasure, miss,’ he said.

She realised that his generosity was probably a reaction to yesterday; that he felt sorry for her. Connie didn’t want to encourage gossip, but it seemed too good an opportunity to miss. She risked a question.

‘You heard of the tragedy yesterday?’

She felt the atmosphere in the tiny shop shift. And though she didn’t turn around, she sensed that every set of eyes was fixed on her back.

‘I did, Miss Gifford,’ Nutbeem said quietly. ‘Most unpleasant for you, miss. And of course for the young lady herself.’

‘I would like to send some mark of condolence to her family,’ she said.

‘That’s very decent of you, Miss Gifford. I am sure that would be appreciated.’ He tapped a box on the counter. ‘We’ve got a collection going, for the flowers. Funeral’s set for Saturday.’

‘So soon?’ The words were out of her mouth before she could check them. ‘Has the coroner released the body already?’

‘Coroner? Don’t know about any coroner, but Mr Crowther’s organising the service. Vera’s body will be released to her father this morning, so I heard.’

Connie stared. It was not possible that a doctor would have thought Vera’s death an accident, surely?

‘Did Dr Evershed do the examination?’

‘No, Miss Gifford. Dr and Mrs Evershed are away. They had to get some chap from Chichester to come out. Dr Woolston, I think Mr Crowther said he was called.’ He shook his head. ‘None of those Barker girls were taught to swim; Tommy didn’t hold with it. With tragic consequences.’

‘Woolston . . .’

She and Harry hadn’t really talked much yesterday afternoon, so she didn’t know if it might be someone connected with him. Surely, if a father or brother had been in the village too, he would have mentioned it? It was possible there was no relation, but Woolston was hardly a common surname.

‘Will there be anything else, Miss Gifford?’

Connie looked up. ‘No. That’s all, thank you.’

‘On account, or are you settling?’

‘Account, please.’

He ran his finger down the ledger. ‘Will three o’clock be convenient for the delivery? Weather permitting. Otherwise, first thing tomorrow.’

‘Either will be fine,’ she said. ‘And really, I’m most grateful.’

*

Connie put up her umbrella and stepped out of the cover of the porch, her head spinning.

She had intended to go to the Bull’s Head to check that arrangements were in hand, but given what she had heard, she now wasn’t sure. Vera’s funeral was taking place on Saturday? How could that be?

The fact was that the barman, Pine, had been present last night, as had Charles Crowther. If Nutbeem was correct, a Dr Woolston had signed a death certificate for a verdict of accidental death, even though he must have known it was no such thing. The gash around her neck where the wire had cut in, the bubbles of blood at the corner of her mouth . . .

Connie couldn’t deny that part of her was relieved. If Vera’s death was seen as an accident, then there was no reason for Blackthorn House – or her father – to be drawn any further into the matter.

But deep down, she railed against the injustice. A young woman had been murdered and her death was being covered up. Just because she was poor, or thought to be a little strange, it didn’t mean her life should count for nothing. It was wrong.

‘Miss Gifford?’

Connie’s heart leapt. ‘Mrs Christie, you startled me!’

‘I wonder if I might have a word, Miss Gifford.’

‘Of course.’

‘Girls, go and play with Pip,’ Mrs Christie said, pointing at the black-and-tan terrier sitting outside the Woolpack.

Connie suddenly feared Mrs Christie might be about to give notice on her daughter’s behalf.

‘Mary was so brave yesterday,’ she said quickly. ‘I couldn’t have managed without her.’

‘She’s fond of you too, miss.’

Connie found herself surprisingly touched. ‘Well, I consider myself lucky to have her. She’s a credit to you.’

She glanced up at the sky. A new bank of black rain clouds was rolling in from the south-west, skimming the tops of the red roofs and the chimney pots. On the opposite side of the road, she saw Mr Crowther, who raised his hat. Three of the women came out of the post office, hesitated when they saw Connie, then nodded and went on their way too. Everyone wanted to get home before the next downpour.

Mrs Christie looked her straight in the eye. ‘Do you recognise me, miss?’

Given that they had exchanged pleasantries less than five minutes ago, it seemed a peculiar thing to ask.

‘Well, yes. Of course. You’re Mary’s mother.’

Mrs Christie held her gaze, and for an instant, Connie saw something more in her eyes. Disappointment, perhaps?

‘Forgive me, Mrs Christie, have I misunderstood your question?’

The older woman dropped her eyes. ‘No, Miss Gifford.’

Connie was confused. ‘I can truly say I did take every care to spare Mary any unpleasantness yesterday, Mrs Christie. I would hate to lose her.’

‘That’s not why I wanted to speak to you, miss, at least not directly. But when I heard about Mr Woolston and what happened last evening . . .’

She took an envelope from her pocket. ‘It wasn’t Mary’s fault, she was that upset.’

Connie saw the name on the cream envelope. ‘I don’t understand, Mrs Christie. Why do you have a letter addressed to me?’

‘Mary found it on the mat yesterday morning and picked it up, meaning to bring it to you. Then, what with everything, she forgot.’

Connie held out her hand. ‘Give it to me, please.’

‘Will you open it?’ Mrs Christie said quietly. Her behaviour and interference was wholly inappropriate, yet there was something about her Connie felt she could trust. A genuine concern.

Connie took the letter. ‘Why didn’t Mary simply bring it with her when she came to work this morning?’

‘I didn’t want you alarmed, miss. It’s just I thought I recognised the handwriting.’

‘Alarmed? Why should I be alarmed?’ Connie stared at the worried, pretty face – familiar, almost – realising for the first time how similar mother and daughter were.

‘Please open it,’ Mrs Christie repeated. The request was so extraordinary that rather than object, Connie found herself doing what she was asked.

She looked down at the envelope in her hand. The elegant block letters in black ink. A flicker of memory. Was it possible that she too recognised the handwriting? She ran her finger along the join, pulled out the single sheet and read what was written.

‘What does it say?’ Mrs Christie asked in a low, taut voice.

‘“Do not be afraid”,’ Connie read. ‘“I am watching you.”’

We then unite the skin by sewing it as we have said before, separating the feathers at each stitch: we furnish the orbits with chopped cotton, which we introduce with small forceps, rounding the eyelids well, we then place the eyes, introducing them under the eyelids, and when a part of the nictating membrane appears below, we must push it in with the point of the needle; that the eye may remain in place.

T
AXIDERMY: OR, THE ART OF COLLECTING, PREPARING,

AND MOUNTING OBJECTS OF NATURAL HISTORY

Mrs R. Lee

Longman & Co, Paternoster Row, London, 1820

The knife sits well in my untaught hand.

What shall I tell you next? Perhaps that it is so simple, after the event, to identify the moment when our eyes are opened and we see the world as it is. A sequence of tiny, inconsequential events – unremarkable except when taken all together – or a blow delivered once too often. The realisation that the laws and principles of justice apply to some and not others. That the truth can be bought.

Four fine gentlemen.

You will wonder how I managed. It was not difficult to put everything in place. I picked my associates well, blind to anything but their own advantage. If one has money, anything can be done in time.

You will ask if I have any regrets, and I do. I regret having to cause distress to those I care for, though I had no choice in the matter. In time, my reasons for acting as I did will be clear. Also, that in the pursuit of my retribution, someone innocent had to die. That death, unnecessary and unwarranted, only served to convince me of the justice of my cause and my chosen course of action.

The punishment must suit the crime.

Chapter 21

Blackthorn House

Fishbourne Marshes

Connie battled home against the wind and slanting, sharp rain.

The moment she’d handed Mrs Christie the note to read for herself, the heavens had opened. The little girls had come squealing back to their mother, abruptly cutting short the conversation. Connie had invited her to Blackthorn House at five o’clock so they could talk further.

She instinctively liked Mrs Christie, who seemed honest and decent. She hoped she would keep the appointment.

*

Arriving home, drenched to the skin, Connie unpinned her hat and dropped her wet coat and boots on the floor, then went straight to the parlour in her stockinged feet and poured herself a measure of her father’s brandy.

She downed it in one, then emptied the bottle into the glass and sat down in the armchair next to the fire.

Mary appeared cautiously in the doorway. Connie felt the girl’s gaze take in the glass.

‘Are you all right, Miss Gifford?’

‘I’m cold,’ she said, considering whether to raise the subject of the letter with Mary. She took another sip of brandy. She didn’t want Mary to think she was in trouble, and besides, Connie was disturbed by the note herself and wanted time to think about it privately. She decided to wait.

‘Has anything happened?’

‘No, miss.’

‘Any visitors?’

‘No, miss, and not a sound from upstairs either.’

Connie glanced up. Her conversation with Mrs Christie had momentarily pushed thoughts of her father out of her mind. Now, it seemed more important than ever that she talk to him about the past. To ask him if he knew who might have delivered such a note to Blackthorn House. If he knew of anyone who might have reason to watch the house.

‘Do you want me to lay a fire, miss? It’s awful damp in here and you’ve been out in the wet. A rug, at least?’

Connie smiled at the girl’s concern. ‘A rug would be very welcome, and my slippers too. And if you could fetch my journal, that would be helpful.’

‘Of course, miss. Where is it?’

Connie tried to remember what she’d done with it when she came in from the terrace yesterday afternoon. Had she taken it into the workshop? She didn’t think she had.

‘Perhaps in the drawing room? I was writing at the table on the terrace.’

Connie felt the heat of the brandy seeping into her bloodstream. She tilted the glass, and the last drop slid down her throat. She looked to the sideboard to see if there was something else she might drink, then decided better of it.

She took off her stockings and rubbed her cold feet, then tucked them up under her in the armchair and leant back against the headrest.

She did not mean to sleep.

*

Connie was looking out of the window of a train at hips and haws, ground ivy and blue-eyed speedwell. A yellowhammer and a robin redbreast, commonplace garden birds.

She was accompanied by a vivacious, smiling girl, eight or nine years older than herself. A ruffled blouse with a lace collar, a long black skirt. Chestnut hair beneath a plain straw hat, decorated with yellow flowers around the rim.

They bought a lunch basket at one of the stations along the line. Connie could remember how greasy the chicken leg was between her fingers. Some cold beef too, and a little bread and butter. Remembered laughing and playing word games like ‘Cupid’s Coming’ and ‘Taboo’. It was a dull day, she remembered that too. The guard came to light the lamps in their carriage. Or was that another journey altogether?

On her lap, a book of nursery rhymes. Too young for her. Feet skimming the floor of the carriage, backwards and forwards as the train rattled on. In sleep, the colours and sights and sounds of that day were coming back to her.

They changed at Shoreham-by-Sea on to the Steyning line. Waiting on the damp platform for their connection, the day still overcast with a sea mist slipping in from the harbour. A small carriage, the drag of the motor engine, the fireman on the plate stoking the fire. Crossing the River Adur on an old wooden bridge and disembarking at Bramber, the name picked out in large white letters on a black-painted board on the platform.

A single, narrow main street. A steep hill and the remains of a ruined castle, along the dusty road to a small flint building with a pitched roof. Outside, an old man – in black suit and bow tie, a straw boater – sitting on a bench. Whiskers. Affixed to the front of the building, the sign read
MUSEUM
:
OPEN
DAILY
. Someone, that same guardian, told her the man was Mr Walter Potter himself, the owner of the museum. In the pretty courtyard garden, lots of visitors waiting their turn to be admitted to the displays.

Connie had no memory of waiting or of purchasing a ticket; only that the front door had stained-glass panels, glinting like a kaleidoscope in the weak afternoon sunlight, and led into an antechamber. A wooden cash desk, polished and surrounded by photographs and a vase of fresh meadow flowers. A glass jar containing Siamese twin pigs, their features squashed and gentle in the confined space. Trotters and tiny snouts and ears. Connie had thought they looked as if they were smiling. At the base of the jar, a sign explaining that the deformed animals had been a gift to the museum some twenty years earlier and were believed to have been formed by witchcraft.

What else? A suspended wooden seat for weighing jockeys, and an iron mantrap, its metal teeth clutched and browned by the blood of victims long dead. A clapper from a Sussex church bell.

Holding hands, walking forward into a room so full of treasures it was impossible to know where to look first. Birds’ nests suspended from the ceiling, a jumble of glass and feather and furs, pelts hanging from the rafters. And everywhere, waist-high display cases – at eye level for her – with a spine of glass domes along the middle of the room containing stuffed birds: an owl, a robin nesting in a kettle, a duckling with four legs. A fox and her cubs, a two-headed kitten. A mummified hand, charred and blackened and sticky; withered flowers from a plundered grave. Grotesque and chillingly beautiful.

But her clearest memories of the day were the tableaux. Large glass cases filled with stuffed animals and birds, each telling a story. All of them the work of Mr Potter, the owner and proprietor of the museum. The guinea pigs’ cricket match, the accompanying band holding precise instruments, silver trumpets and a slide trombone. The score frozen at 189 for 7. A kittens’ tea party, complete with doll’s house chairs, blue and white porcelain cups and saucers and a silver teapot. Chicken and cake on the table moulded from paste and glue. And around each tiny feline neck, blue ribbons or red, a copper necklace.

In only one tableau were the animals fully dressed. The kitten minister in his cassock, holding a prayer book between his claws. The veiled kitten bride in her wedding dress, her groom in black. Pearl and tulle, a posy of orange blossom, the female guests hung about with strings of red beads and blue, earrings clipped to their ears.

Connie moved slowly from case to case, her fingers pressed upon the glass. The smell of dust and overheated air, the lingering aroma of tobacco on men’s coats, and camphor. A magical world of imagination. Life captured and preserved for ever.

But what mattered most about that day, what had imprinted itself on Connie’s pliant memory, was one of the largest of the tableaux, a polished metal plate affixed to the case:
THE
ORIGINAL
DEATH
AND
BURIAL
OF
COCK
ROBIN
.
Nearly one hundred birds – had someone told her this? – with glass-beaded eyes: bullfinch and robin, red-backed shrike, hawfinch and bunting, the sparrow with his bow and arrow. Old tombstones and disinterred bones, sepulchres and a tiny blue coffin, a dish of blood. Every verse from the nursery rhyme portrayed inside the case. An owl with white and gold feathers digging the grave with a pick and shovel. A grieving lark with a black sash around its neck. The rook who served as the parson holding a prayer book in its claw.

Staring into the case, imagining the noise of the cawing in the trees surrounding the house. The tolling of the bell. And in the middle of such delight, the slow realisation, and her world shattering into pieces. Even though she was young, Connie understood that her father’s museum –
GIFFORD’S
WORLD
-
FAMOUS
HOUSE
OF
AVIAN
CURIOSITIES
– was based on this one. A few of the cases all but identical.

All those telegrams and words overheard. Court cases and summonses. An auction to sell off their possessions, a cart arriving to take the boxes and packing crates away. For a couple of days, just the three of them left in the almost empty museum with the few displays yet to be sold.

Her, Gifford and Cassie.

*

In her armchair in Blackthorn House, Connie stirred. Hearing a woman’s voice, close at hand.

‘Miss?’

She jerked awake, and saw a pretty face looking down at her.

‘Cassie?’

‘It’s Mary, miss.’

Connie blinked, then registered the girl standing in front of her chair clutching a blanket and a pair of slippers. Disorientated and embarrassed, she sat up.

‘I’m sorry, of course. I must have fallen asleep.’

Mary handed Connie her slippers and the rug. ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you.’

‘No, it’s better I wake up. Did I tell you Nutbeem’s will deliver at three o’clock.’

Mary’s eyes widened. ‘That’s good, miss.’

‘It is.’ Connie nodded. ‘Did you fetch my journal?’

‘That’s what I was coming to say, miss. I’ve looked everywhere, and I can’t find it.’