The Taxidermist's Daughter (7 page)

Chapter 9

‘Miss Gifford?’

A man’s voice calling, not one she recognised. Connie leapt up from the bed, for a moment forgetting where she was. Then she looked down at the half-burnt piece of paper in her hand and realised it had happened again. She had slipped out of time. How long had she been sitting here?

‘Miss Gifford?’

She ran to the window and looked down. Mary was standing in the garden, her hands clutching at her apron. Beside her was a young man in his mid twenties. In the slightest of moments between one breath and the next, she took in his appearance: medium height and build, brown moustache, starched collar, and a waistcoat, suit and tie each a different shade of blue. Turn-ups on his trousers and a pair of polished Oxfords. Connie was certain she had never met him before.

‘Are you there, miss?’ Mary called.

‘Here,’ she replied.

The stranger looked up and started to talk. Connie could see his lips were moving, but somehow she couldn’t distinguish a word he was saying. ‘I’ll come down,’ she called, ‘if you wouldn’t mind waiting.’

Why had Mary disregarded her instructions? Where was Dr Evershed? There was no doctor’s surgery in the village, so although he was retired – a well-respected amateur artist these days – he would know the correct procedures to follow. Who was this stranger Mary had brought instead?

Connie took a last look around and hurried out of her father’s room, locking it behind her.

*

The back garden was now entirely in shadow. Connie recognised that she must have been upstairs for quite a bit longer than she’d thought.

Mary darted forward. ‘I’m sorry, miss, I—’

‘That will do, Mary,’ she said, cutting off the girl’s apology. She tried to behave as if everything was normal.

‘I’m Constantia Gifford.’ She met the man’s gaze. ‘And you are?’

‘Harold Woolston.’ He raised his hat, then removed his gloves and held out his hand.

After a moment’s hesitation, Connie took his hand and shook.

‘I did what you said, miss,’ Mary gabbled. ‘The doctor wasn’t there, but—’

‘I was,’ Woolston said. ‘Your girl came flying out of nowhere, saying that she needed help. So here I am.’

‘Are you staying in the village, Mr Woolston?’

‘Just passing through.’

Catching the hesitancy in his voice, Connie waited for him to say something further, but he did not. He had the most extraordinary colour eyes, she noticed. Almost violet.

‘Did Mary explain what has happened?’ she asked.

‘No. Only that she had been sent to fetch the doctor. Since I was on hand, I thought I might offer myself in his place.’

‘You are a friend of Dr and Mrs Evershed?’

His eyes widened. ‘Arthur Evershed?’

‘Well, yes, but if—’

‘I’d heard he lived near Chichester,’ Harry said. ‘He’s the most remarkable artist, all while working as a doctor, too.’ He stopped, seeing the expression on her face. ‘Forgive me,’ he said quickly. ‘I’m apt to let my enthusiasm run away with me.’

Connie stared at him. The habits of caution bred into her by watching over her father for years ran deep. On the other hand, she couldn’t cope on her own and it would be an ugly business. Drownings always were. She’d witnessed that at first hand in January when the mill pond flooded and the body of an itinerant had been found in the reeds.

‘It is rather unpleasant, I’m afraid,’ she said.

He gave a brief smile. ‘I’m sure I am equal to it.’

‘Can I go inside, miss?’ Mary asked.

Connie hesitated. It would be easier with three of them. But though she forced herself to rise above the rumours and gossip that circulated about her father, she didn’t want to be accused of causing distress to a young girl. Besides, she was genuinely fond of her.

‘Yes. Mr Woolston and I can manage.’

Connie walked a few steps back towards the house with the girl.

‘I don’t suppose you saw Mr Gifford, did you? On the path or in Fishbourne?’

Mary shook her head. ‘No, miss.’

Connie held her gaze. ‘Thank you. I will call you when we’re finished. Perhaps you could make some tea and take it out to the terrace for when . . . for later.’

She took a deep breath, then turned back.

‘So, how can I be of service?’ Harry asked.

‘I regret to say . . .’ She paused, hating how stiff she sounded. ‘There’s been a drowning. A young woman. Mary saw her in the stream and, of course, it gave her a fright.’

He blanched. ‘A drowning?’

‘I think so, yes.’

‘Is it common—’ He stopped. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean
common
as such. Rather, is this something that happens at this part of the creek? Here, I mean. This spot. You’re so close to the water.’

Connie shook her head. ‘Not often. You see—’

‘I’m sorry.’ Woolston jumped in, misunderstanding her hesitation. ‘Thoughtless of me to fire questions at you. I’m sure I can manage alone. If you’d rather. Not the sort of thing a lady should . . .’

‘It will take two to bring her out, Mr Woolston,’ she said quietly.

‘Harry.’ He was awfully pale. ‘Harry is fine.’

For a moment, the intimacy of his Christian name hung between them.

‘Right,’ he said, his voice falsely bright. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

Chapter 10

Connie pointed to the far bank of the river.

‘There,’ she said. ‘It – she – is on the far side.’

Woolston removed his shoes and socks, then rolled his trousers up to just below his knees. He handed her his jacket, then folded back the sleeves of his shirt too.

It wasn’t unusual for objects to be washed up into the creek and the little rills and streams. Flotsam, a torn coal sack or a child’s fishing rod, seaweed when the spring tides coincided with a strong sou’westerly. But not a body.

Down on the coast, in the fishing creels of Selsey and Pagham and Littlehampton, drownings were a fact of life. This far up the estuary, accidents were more likely to occur on the marshes than in the sea itself. Men missing their footing in the dark, stumbling into the sinking black mud and unable to free themselves. Could the body have been swept all the way up here by the tide? Connie didn’t think so.

‘I think the best thing is for me to climb down,’ Woolston said. ‘See if I can pull the body – young lady – out without you having to get wet into the bargain.’

‘Thank you.’

He stepped down into the water, then steadied himself in the current.

‘How deep does it get?’ he called up.

‘Two feet, perhaps, in the middle. Less at the banks.’

She watched him wade across, the incoming tide splashing up against him until the backs of his trouser legs were wet. When he drew level with the body, he hesitated, then reached out and took hold of the sodden shoulders of the woollen coat. The sudden movement caused the woman’s head to loll to one side, her face breaking the surface of the water as if she was trying to breathe.

White face, blue lips, red hair.

Connie caught her breath. The sudden, sharp stab of memory.
Blood, skin, bone. Dust on bare floorboards, feathers
.

‘But not water,’ she murmured. ‘Not drowned.’

‘She’s caught on something,’ Woolston was saying. ‘There’s some kind of a wire, all tangled up. Fishing line, perhaps? Do the lobster boats come this far?’

Connie forced herself to answer. ‘No. Not usually.’

Harry put his hands beneath the woman’s arms and tugged. At first, nothing happened. He pulled again, a little harder, and this time, the corpse came suddenly free. He staggered back, almost losing his footing in the water, but then adjusted his grip and slowly dragged the woman cross-current towards the near bank. As the water grew shallower, Connie saw how the woman became heavier in his arms.

She leaned down to help, grasping handfuls of wet wool and trying to pull the body up on to the bank. Such a dreadful way to die, struggling for breath. She shuddered and hoped that it had been quick.

Between them, they eventually hauled her up on to the grass. Breathless from the exertion, Harry rolled her over on to her back, then stood up and walked a few steps away.

Connie looked down at the young woman. Her face was bruised and her features distended by her immersion in the water; she couldn’t be sure whether or not this was the woman she’d seen watching the house, or, for that matter, the woman in the churchyard. The one face had been concealed by a veil, the second by the night-time shadow and rain and the brim of her hat.

But it was the same coat. Connie didn’t think there could be two such distinctive pieces.

She knelt and laid the cold arms across the chest, noticing how the backs of the woman’s hands were scratched. Her skin was oddly pimpled, as if she had goose bumps from the cold, and there was a white foam in the corners of her lips and nose, tinged with blood. Her shirt had a pretty red embroidered pattern around the neck.

‘Choked . . .’

The word slipped out of Connie’s mouth. She felt her knees buckle, but she stayed upright. Woolston didn’t notice. He was putting on his shoes and socks, rearranging his own clothes.

‘Forgive me, I didn’t hear what you said.’

‘I said nothing,’ she said. Her voice seemed to be coming from a long way away.

‘A suicide, do you think?’ Woolston said. ‘Though I can’t understand how she got so badly caught up. Do you think she might have come off a boat? A fishing trawler, something of the sort?’

‘No. Women don’t go out on the boats,’ Connie said, trying to think.

She didn’t know what to do, only that she had to get rid of him as quickly as she could. She walked to where the laundry still lay on the ground, picked up a sheet and laid it over the body.

‘There’s nothing more we can do,’ she said, keeping her voice level. ‘If you wouldn’t mind, could you please go and tell Dr Evershed what has happened. He will make arrangements. She – the body – will have to be taken to Chichester.’

She felt his eyes on her, admiring how well she was taking things. Or disapproving, perhaps. Would he prefer her to be one of those frilly creatures forever collapsing in a haze of
sal
volatile
and tears? If only he knew the turmoil she actually felt.

‘I could do with that tea,’ he said. ‘Something stronger, even.’

She met his gaze. ‘The sooner the right people are informed, the better. Don’t you agree?’

‘Well, yes. Of course,’ Harry said, realising she was dismissing him. ‘May I at least wash my hands?’

Connie could see no possible way of denying him that. She led the way across the lawn and in through the front door, then escorted him along the corridor to the downstairs cloakroom. Did he think her callous? She was surprised by how much she would mind if he did.

‘I really am very grateful and I’m sorry to ask you to go straight away. I simply cannot bear the thought of being left here with . . . her for any longer than necessary.’

He nodded. ‘Of course.’

They were standing close to one another by the front door. Connie felt suddenly overwhelmed by his presence. She slipped past him and out on to the path. He stepped out to join her.

‘Do you live here alone? It’s awfully isolated.’

‘No. With my father.’

He looked back into the house. ‘Is he here?’

Connie found a smile. ‘No, otherwise of course he would have dealt with all this . . . I am expecting him back at any moment.’

‘Maybe I should wait until he returns?’

‘Thank you, but there’s no need. I will feel better knowing the arrangements are in hand.’

Harry tilted his head. ‘Thing is, I feel like I’m running out on you. In any case, you’ve hurt yourself.’

‘Hurt?’

He reached out and took her wrist, turned her hand over in his. Looking at the cuff of her shirt speckled with blood. Connie felt a charge shoot between them.

‘It’s nothing,’ she said, pulling her hand back.

‘You should put a dab of iodine on it all the same.’

‘It’s nothing, Mr Woolston,’ she repeated, desperate for him to go.

‘Harry. Please. Mr Woolston is awfully formal after all this.’

‘I suppose it is.’ She paused. ‘Usually, I’m known as Connie. Not Constantia.’

‘Connie.’ He put on his hat. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can. And I hope we will run into one another in less disagreeable circumstances. Perhaps I might call?’

‘Perhaps,’ she said. ‘Thank you, Harry.’

*

Connie listened to his footsteps on the gravel, the latch of the gate opening and shutting. She shut the front door, then sank down on to the hall chair.

Had he noticed?

The white in the woman’s mouth, the specks of blood. The marks around her neck. Connie needed to examine her properly, but she was sure of what she had seen. The next thing was to send Mary away too. She had to think. Had to decide what to do for the best.

She found the maid sitting on an upturned milk churn in the scullery, twisting at her apron. Mary jumped to her feet.

‘Sorry, miss, I’m all at sixes and sevens. I was just about to boil the water for some tea.’

‘That’s all right, Mary, it won’t be necessary. Mr Woolston has gone to report what’s happened to the authorities.’

‘Is she . . .’ Mary cast nervous eyes in the direction of the garden.

‘We have removed her from the water, yes. I’m going to wait for someone to come and take the body away. I came to say you may take the rest of the day off, Mary. You’ve had a nasty fright and you were brave.’

‘Are you sure, miss? Will you be safe here on your own, until the master gets back?’

‘Do you know where he’s gone, Mary?’ she said quickly.

The girl frowned. ‘No, miss.’

‘Did you see him leave?’

‘Leave, miss?’ Mary said, becoming more puzzled with each question. ‘I just thought he was out same as usual, it being the afternoon.’

Even though things had been different in the house over the past week, Mary clearly assumed Gifford had stuck to his usual routine and gone out after lunch. The girl couldn’t have heard them talking on the terrace, or his fleeing upstairs.

‘Of course, yes,’ Connie said.

If Mary believed Gifford had been away from Blackthorn House all afternoon, then that would make things easier in the long run. No need for any kind of explanation. She pulled herself up short, perturbed at the direction her thoughts were taking. There was no reason – no reason – to assume her father knew about the woman’s death.

‘Will that be all, Miss Gifford?’

Connie dragged her attention back. ‘Yes. Please keep what has happened here to yourself, Mary. I don’t want to encourage gossip.’

‘But what shall I say when Ma asks why I’m back early?’

‘You can, of course, tell your mother, but no one else.’

‘And what about the washing, miss? It’s still out there, all in the mud. It will spoil if it stays there.’

‘I will collect the washing while you get your things,’ Connie said, biting back her impatience. ‘You can drop it off with Miss Bailey at the laundry on your way home.’

*

Connie set the linen basket down by the gate.

A few moments later, Mary came out of the back door and, taking care not to look in the direction where the body lay, walked quickly across the grass, picked up the laundry and out on to the footpath. There was little hope of the girl holding her tongue for long, but Connie only needed half an hour’s grace. After that, it rather depended on how observant Mr Woolston had been and what he chose to say.

Connie rushed into the workshop, realising with a sinking feeling that she had left the door open, as well as all of the windows. The dead jackdaw lay on the table beneath the newspaper, but was surrounded now by a haze of minuscule black flies. She flapped them away with the paper, then quickly took one of the glass bell-jar domes from the shelf adjacent to the counter. She placed it over the bird. If damage had been done, it would be clear by morning. She could not allow herself to mourn the waste of her labours yet.

She hurried to the rack where their tools hung on hooks. Hammers and files, flat- and round-blade forceps, cutters, scalpels, a pair of scissors. She grabbed the largest pincers and ran back outside. The garden was completely in shadow and a slight wind was blowing up from the creek. In the distance, she could hear the screeching of the gulls on the turn of the tide. The air felt brittle, sharp with anticipation.

She knelt down beside the body, feeling the squelch and damp of the grass beneath her, and folded back the sheet. Fifteen minutes out of the water and already the skin seemed greyer. Connie was now almost completely certain it wasn’t the woman who had been watching Blackthorn House. The hair was a similar colour, a vivid chestnut, but there was no refinement in the features, and the body was stockier.

Despite being sodden with salt water, the quality of the coat was evident. An expensive and unusual design. Whereas the clothes underneath were cheap and threadbare.

Connie searched the pockets. There was nothing in them at all. Perhaps the coat was stolen, or someone had given it to her to wear. In the pocket of the plain green skirt there were a few damp seeds of grain, caught in the seams, as well as a black glass bead. She turned it over in her palm, while she steeled herself for what she had to do next.

It wasn’t a red trim around the collar, but dried blood. An uneven pattern where the wound had heavily bled into the cotton, which had then been submerged in the water.

With care, Connie probed and manoeuvred her hand around the distended flesh, feeling for the wire she knew must be there. At last she found it, deeply embedded in the woman’s neck. She had to dig her fingernails into the spongy flesh to get purchase until she could position the pincers. She squeezed, felt the wire snip.

It was not a fishing line, caught up by accident, as Harry had supposed, but rather the sort of wire used by stuffers. Commonplace, the cheapest and most widely distributed make. In the old days, all the workshops along the south coast would have had it. Brighton, Worthing, Swayling, even Chichester twenty years ago. Now most of the old-timers had gone. The taxidermy studios closed for business. It was no longer something that could be bought on any high street.