‘Child—’ I could barely make sound. The girl’s crying had become a drone, hopelessly repeating, with the hollowness of a wind. We stood and listened, for we were appalled and our minds empty of any way to help. I raised a hand, I think perhaps to touch the girl, and perhaps to link the three of us together where no words or actions could do so. Perhaps…though I could no longer say what my own actions meant.
Suddenly, behind us at the mouth of the alley, there was a man’s shout and the thump of booted feet. The dog began to bark again, hysterical. Sobriety and I turned, falling in our haste against the brick wall, and saw two figures struggling, stopped still for a moment as each strained against the equal force of the other, and then broke away. The smaller ran off, his scraping footsteps receding and ending with the heavy slam of a door. The larger turned toward us, his features blurred in the moonlight, concentrated on peering into the black where we stood. The dog’s barking began to slow.
‘Ma’am?’
‘Mr Brent?’ He stood amorphous in his coat and hat, blasting forth foggy breath from his exertions.
‘Ma’am, it was a man come from this house.’ He indicated the wall of the alley, which was also the wall of the Farquharson mansion. ‘But clearly he was not the master, ma’am, and he was creeping like he might have no good on his mind—’
There was a rapid scuffling then, from behind us women (and a woof from wherever its source stood listening in the night) and we turned our heads back toward the girl, but her voice sounded from much further away now, receding even as she still spoke.
‘You bring me no good, madam. You bring me no good.’ The voice grew smaller and more lonely. ‘Go away. You bring me no good.’
I felt myself paralysed. I was beset by scattered, incoherent thoughts wrung with guilt, then of uncertainty that I was guilty. What have I done? What might I otherwise have done? Nausea shifted within me at the thought that I might indeed be to blame, for something or for all of it. I could not say.
I bring nothing but confusion. Was it I that brought this confusion? I have been careless; I have been clumsy. Oh Lord, clumsiness makes such misery… I was swamped now by loneliness brought about by this nausea, by a sense of being closed in by heartless, grinding forces—like the heartless, heavy walls of the great Farquharson house—with no pity for the small, the hungry, the rag-doll playthings of monsters.
And here, heaven forgive me, was a plaything whom I called delusional, but was not. Poor child, she was not.
I felt that I had broken something, but could not put a name to it, and was sorry, with a depth and desperation that took my breath.
‘Has she gone, the girl?’ I knew the answer, and could not have said why I whispered, except, perhaps, to speak as one might tiptoe—in order to do no more damage.
So much damage, so much…
I stood and stared into the dark of the alleyway, overwhelmed with a cold that shook me in its grip so that I quaked.
‘Come away, my dear, come.’ Sobriety took my arm and we followed Mr Brent back across the square, as a brougham, its lamp yellow against the black box of the vehicle, creaked and clattered its way to a stop just behind our own carriage. Another, less grand, was rounding the far corner, also headed now for Madame Drew’s establishment.
Chapter Thirty-five
We were slow in stepping across the square, myself with the sense of travelling from one country into another in the space of a few moments. The night was still, and all of its shapes—the
shadows in overlaid black and greys, the steady furze of lights from streetlamps—seemed painted. A mist was gathering to hover over the ground, thickened with the gathering smoke from London chimneys on a cold night. I looked about without comprehension; I could not for the moment remember how to comport myself. There was a feeling that there was much that was important left undone, and that there was indeed something very important that must be done.
If I could only think what that could be.
Sobriety, too, was looking about herself as if she had just stepped somewhere strange. She, too, glanced back to the black mouth of the alleyway, where the mist gathered to blur the cobbles, and then to the newly arrived carriage, the brougham, where now a door had been opened and steps let down. A tall figure leapt to the ground with a lightness utterly at odds with the misery that dwelt by the great dark house on the other side of the square. The gentleman was proffering a hand to someone still within the carriage when that other vehicle slowed and came to a stop behind the two vehicles already stationary.
It was an awkward moment, for it was clear we had no acquaintance with these new arrivals, at least not with the gentleman we could see, and could not linger in the street where each group must ignore the other. I grasped at this reminder of manners, come at last to give shape to an evening become so confused and shapeless. I took Sobriety’s arm and paused a moment to thank Mr Brent—poor Mr Brent, who believes his mistress must be rescued at nearly every outing—and then moved in the direction of Madame Drew’s house.
I looked at the front door, at the end of its short path and rise of two steps.
In fact, I am not ready for this either.
I bent to Sobriety.
‘How vexing that Mrs Courtney is not yet—’ But I was arrested in this by a low call: ‘Mrs Hadley, Miss Mullins!’
It was a startling thing, for a moment ago there had been only one gentleman in evidence, and that a complete stranger. We halted, both turning to see who had called and ready, in self-defence, to summon a regal coldness to our rescue. Each had a tight grip upon the other, for circumstances were such, and untoward events tumbling over one another at such a rate, that it was difficult—a struggle almost distressing—to arrive at some form of behaviour that would be fitting.
It was Sobriety who was first to relax—her grip loosening of a sudden. She whispered, ‘It is Inspector Broadford.’
‘Ladies, I am pleased to have caught you before you entered!’ He came toward them, wading through the mist at his knees.
‘Inspector, what brings you here?’ Sobriety said.
‘I have come to see that fraud is not committed, to be frank, ladies.’
‘Fraud? This night will make us dizzy, Sobriety!’ I took a breath. ‘Fraud, Inspector Broadford?’
Lord! There are predators at every corner!
‘There is every possibility. Indeed.’ The inspector stepped a little to one side. ‘I should introduce some people to you before we knock at Madame’s door. Mr William West, and his sister, Miss Josephine West…’
I, with my mind full of incomplete sentences like querulous puffs (how much more? Much more? More?), turned to regard two tall figures who now stepped into a pool of light diffused by the mist. Mr West—he who had handed a companion down from the brougham—wore a loose, dark velvet coat, unbuttoned, and a copious fine-woollen scarf tossed about his throat and shoulder. I raised my eyes until I met those of the man himself: dark, heavy-lidded, languid and steady. He stood at his ease in a way that those in thrall to the clocks of industry are never at ease, I thought with a shrinking self-consciousness.
What is it he sees? I blinked to bring Mr West and my own attention the more into focus, and saw his face then—pale, with full lips smiling slightly, shadows cupping cheekbones, and the tiniest curved flick of a shadow from eyelashes black as this night. These eyelashes, I considered, were what gave the eyes such intensity. They were pupil-less eyes now, though the gleam of streetlamp reflected from them. He wore a large-brimmed, soft hat perched a little to one side, which threw heavy shade on his face as he moved, and black hair hung to his velvet collar.
Mr Hadley would dislike him intensely, I thought, and knew I had never met any man so evidently artistic in my life. I felt some physical response, disturbingly somewhere between revulsion and fascination, at what manner of subjects this man might discuss in drawing rooms.
&nbs
p; The inspector was still speaking. ‘ …Mrs Hadley. And Miss Mullins, Mr West, Miss West…’ And I found—though I must have placed it there, when I ought simply to have bowed—my gloved hand clasped in Mr West’s and then, his impression and warmth still upon me, I likewise greeted his sister, pulling my gaze from one to the other, while aware still that the first stood, warm and breathing, close by.
Miss West, too, had a pale face and dark eyes. She looked down at me from nearly the same height as her brother, from under a bonnet that was very plain while well made. She looked very long indeed, clad also in what looked like dark velvet beneath a loose cloak, while the mist swirled about her skirt…and I understood of a sudden that the woman wore no crinoline.
Does she wear stays?
It was a very good thing, it crossed my mind, that it was much too dark to see me blush. It was said, too, that those who adopted the dress favoured by the Aesthetic Movement, such as this, were acerbic regarding the wanton display of those who did not; while I myself could not help for a moment thinking of Rossetti’s painted woman—she, of ambiguous relation to the artist and, possibly, acquainted with the Wests themselves (assuming Mr Rossetti himself to be acquainted with them)—draped in sensuality upon Mr Hadley’s bedroom wall. Miss West was not so clad, of course, but the plainness of her dress seemed a disguise, where something disturbing lay beneath while, at the same time, I felt myself to be trussed and encased and slightly absurd.
What is absurd, I told myself, though my thoughts still swam, is that I am thrown into this state, by ambiguity and…and knowingness…and…
And the woman was so tall.
That is it. She is so very tall. I took a breath.
And one does not know how she thinks. I let the breath out, and memory stirred amid my mental confusions.
‘Miss West, the poetess,’ I said. ‘And Mr West, the artist?’
The artist. A man full of notions which are discussed in galleries and, sometimes, reviled in parlours…
‘Indeed, indeed,’ Mr Broadford said. ‘But also, the Wests whose young relation, a cousin dependent upon Lady Florence West, is threatened with penury because the lady—in all good faith—promises to make over the bulk of her estate to Madame Drew.’
‘Ah.’ There was a pause, for I did not feel I could say more, this night being so full of stories, each too large for comprehension.
‘But Inspector,’ Sobriety spoke, and the inspector turned to smile at her. ‘Inspector, that is calamitous, but is it fraud? Necessarily?’
‘We think a case can be made.’ Sobriety, the inspector and I all turned heads to look up at Mr West. There is a languor even to his speech, a drawl, I noted, that spoke of the Wests’ childhood (I had read in a journal) spent amongst the unhurried aristocracy, whose elegant salons echoed with the wit of English intellect and the murmur of amusement at the stodgy display of the English middle classes, of which I was a member.
Mr West raised one dark eyebrow. ‘Madame may not be entirely who she says she is, after all—that is to say, she is neither Madame Drew nor able to summon the spirits of anyone’s dearest. It is because Madame pretends to fulfil Lady Florence’s desire to be reunited on a fortnightly basis with her late husband that she—Lady Flo—proposes to make her bequest.’
He looked around the group, and smiled a little when his gaze came to me. ‘So, you see.’
‘Yes,’ I said, because I felt I ought to say something. Despite the chill of the night, my cheeks heated again. A thought occurred. ‘Is she American?’
‘Oh yes,’ the inspector said. ‘Her fame—or notoriety, if you will— first began in a small town in the United States. She had some quite exalted followers later, in New York.’
There was a pause, during which I fancied the Wests regarded me closely and Mr Broadford looked from me to Sobriety and back.
Oh! They think…
Sobriety suddenly spoke into the silence. ‘It should be mentioned, perhaps, that Mrs Hadley is here herself, and I with her, because Mrs Hadley’s sister-in-law Mrs Courtney is also admiring of Madame—’
‘Oh, yes, yes. She wanted our company.’ I looked around at the others. ‘And I was concerned at the degree of her devotion to a spiritualist.’
I experienced some discomfiture, when I had finished speaking. My very breath puffed in foggy spurts. I wondered at this; perhaps it was the embarrassment at so suddenly being flung into the centre of a closely listening group such as this, of people I scarcely knew. It made me aware even of the sound of my own voice, and this awareness itself made me falter. Perhaps also it was that I had felt such a need to explain myself, making excuses like a child.
I have not felt such a child for—for weeks.
This night! It is too much!
Miss West began to speak, during which I took pains to slow my own breathing. I counted in my head, and fancied it was something like a slow dance…
‘We believe, and the inspector also suspects it—’ Miss West inclined her head toward Mr Broadford. ‘—that Madame has done this before. She has encouraged other bequests on the basis of her unlikely gifts. I think you do well to be concerned for Mrs Courtney’s welfare.’
‘It would certainly account for Madame’s ability to lodge in such a neighbourhood.’ Mr Broadford chuckled, addressing himself at first to the group in general and then, at last, to Sobriety.
‘Oh.’ The thought had just occurred to me. ‘It is possible Madame is financially distressed.’ Mr West’s face was all attention, I supposed, although I did not feel I could both look to see and speak sensibly at the same time. ‘She may have made some rash investments with Mr Farquharson.’
‘How so?’ said Mr Broadford, whose surprise was evident, and the others murmured too, and so I was able to smile my own small smile of satisfaction at having added something important and unexpected, while Sobriety took up the story of Madame Drew’s frantic outbursts across the square.
Chapter Thirty-six
The inspector was not to be acknowledged as the inspector, it was agreed, until came the time of arrest or similar declaration.
‘It is Mister Broadford, I must emphasise.’ He smiled widely at Sobriety. ‘This is most important.’
‘Certainly, Mr Broadford.’ Sobriety returned his smile.
She flirts with him! Deciding for the moment to regard my own reactions with circumspection, I noted how instant, every time, was the faint stab I felt whenever Sobriety and Mr Broadford communed, or even when Sobriety merely mentioned his name.
Indeed, these two—Mr Broadford and Sobriety—continued to murmur together at the back of the group as Mr West took up the brass knocker to tap twice at Madame Drew’s door. There was a wait of a few moments, during which it was clear to me that my maid and the inspector discussed the waif in the alleyway by Mr Farquharson’s great house. I heard, ‘Mr Spillane, I believe—’ and in reply, ‘—yes, yes, very likely.’ The two glanced twice toward the now befogged alleyway and returned to their hurried discussion until, at last, Madame Drew’s door was opened.
How the stage is set! Inside the crowded vestibule it was evident Madame much preferred the dimmer character of candlelight—mainly
within glass flutes—and small oil lamps, to that of gas, and that drapery of all sorts was for her a favourite form of furnishing. There was velvet and brocade, especially, very rich in plum, deep green and maroon, and in parts heavily embroidered with fleur-de-lis in gold thread, hanging in thick curtaining in doorways (as well as over windows), from great brass rods fixed where might otherwise have been a picture rail. It gave to the whole room, and no doubt to the rest of the house if all was similarly draped, a deadening hush, where every word and sound fell heavy and dull, and all felt as if wrapped in fog.
We divested ourselves of hats, cloaks, coats and shawls (taken by Madame Drew’s very small maid, who nonetheless seemed able to receive this pile with a
practiced efficiency that Cissy might do well to emulate) and moved through into Madame’s front parlour.
Mr West looked about himself as he took his hands from his gloves, and held these for a moment in long, white fingers, absently stroking the leather before slipping them into the pocket of his
jacket. His sister, too, quietly observed the room, and I followed her gaze. There was a small and sinking fire in the hearth beneath the
marble mantelpiece, which itself bore two candles, these without glass
covering, and a collection of silver-framed daguerreotypes of Madame Drew with various folk familiar to Society displayed on the cold, mottled surface. There were two small tables laden with lacquered boxes and a weight of pale peonies, and a larger, rectangular table pulled to the side of the room, with an oil lamp on it and several chairs pulled up around. Oddly, several paintings—severe portraits too dark to identify in this light, and three feathery landscapes—also hung from the brass rods, against the drapery.
The pale oval of Miss West’s face, observing the room, showed no expression beyond dignity, and the simplicity of her belted and uncrinolined dress lent her a nun-like composure. It was all of a deep blue, with a simple lace collar at the neck. She caught my eye and smiled a little.
Miss West and Mr West. They share a look of intellectuals—what did Mr Hadley say of intellectuals? ‘They do not think straight.’
Madame Drew stepped into the room behind the group, her hands folded before her waist and her small mouth curved in welcome. She was quite calm now, after her hectic running about in the street, her demeanour one of a great, quiet confidence.
It is thus we recognise her performance. If she but knew we had witnessed.
While not as tall as Miss West, Madame Drew was taller than either me or indeed Mr Broadford; she wore much black jet beads and lace of a very good quality, and equally wore an air of self-possession that knew the impression she made even on the very sceptical.
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