Death Takes A Lover (DS Billings Victorian Mysteries)

by Olivier Bosman

  “Detective Sergeant,” he corrected her.

  “Really? That's below an inspector, isn't it?” Her green, cat-like eyes gleamed at him with a playful light as she spoke.

  “Yes, it is,” Billings replied, choosing to ignore the deliberate provocation.

  “I'm afraid Mrs Thornton is not able to meet you at present. She's unwell.”

  “I'm sorry to hear it.”

  “Have you had anything to eat, Detective Sergeant?”

  “Cook is making him some gruel,” the butler said.

  “Gruel?” Miss Whitfield enquired, with a look of disgust on her expressive face. “Does our visitor want gruel? Why don't we offer him some hotpot instead? I'm sure there's plenty left.”

  “I'm afraid there isn't.”

  “What are you talking about, Wilcox?”

  The butler looked down at the floor and started shifting his feet uncomfortably.

  “Oh, I see. She's told you not to feed him properly, hasn't she?”

  Wilcox didn't know how to reply. He continued staring at his feet.

  Miss Whitfield bestowed a mocking smile on Billings. “It appears you're only to be fed gruel, Detective Sergeant. Mrs Thornton's orders.”

  The detective looked confused.

  “Mrs Thornton has very strict ideas on gradations of rank,” explained the young woman loftily. “If you'd been the mayor or the vicar she'd have given you hotpot, but gruel is what she feeds all the tradespeople… No matter. I came to fetch Wilcox. Mrs Thornton needs you to light her fire.”

  “Of course, miss.”

  They turned to leave the room together.

  Billings put a hand on Miss Whitfield’s arm to detain her.

  “I was wondering when I might have the opportunity to interview you?” he enquired.

  She paused and looked him up and down before calmly, but sternly, removing his hand from her arm.

  “I'm afraid you'll have no such opportunity at all. At least, not for so long as Mrs Thornton is ill. I'm constantly at her beck and call in the sick room.”

  “May I not come up and interview you both in her apartment?”

  “Oh, I don't think Mrs Thornton would allow that! We've had enough snooping and sniffing about this house by the Yorkshire Constabulary.”

  “I’m afraid I must insist. I have to interview every member of this...”

  “Insist? Who are you to insist in Mrs Thornton's house?”

  “I represent the law.”

  The young lady seemed taken aback to hear it and there was a brief pause while she reconsidered.

  “Well, perhaps tomorrow,” she conceded. “I might be able to make time for you tomorrow. Now, if you don't mind, we really must get that fire going or the poor wretch will freeze to death. Goodbye, Detective Sergeant Billings.”

  She turned her back on him and stalked out of the room.

  “You can meet me in my parlour later,” the butler whispered before following Miss Whitfield out into the corridor. “It's the third room to the left. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

  Alone at last, Billings picked up his satchel, placed it on the bed and took out a large leather wallet. His hands trembled as he undid the ties, but he felt an instant sense of relief when he saw the little glass ampoules stowed in the flap and the clear liquid shifting within them. How he longed for the relief of the drug rushing through his veins after the long, stressful journey he’d had. But it was too early. He looked out of the window and saw the sun still glowing at the edge of the sky. It was weak, orange and dying, but still present. All he could do now to see him through the next few hours was take an ampoule and sniff its soothing fumes.

  He felt his head lighten instantly as he did so, as if a fresh, crisp breeze had rushed through a stuffy room. Just two more hours before my next dose, he thought. Three at the most. I can last until then, I know I can.

  2. Gracie Brickenborough

  Wilcox was sitting in his armchair sipping whisky when Billings appeared in the doorway.

  “Come in, Detective Sergeant Billings. Come and join me by the fire. Let me pour you a glass.”

  “No, thank you. Not when I'm on duty.”

  “Come on! It'll help you relax after your long journey.”

  The butler poured another glass of whisky and held it out to him. Billings immediately noticed the change in Wilcox’s demeanour. He seemed to be a completely different person in his own room and off duty. Gone was the stiffness and rigid formality of his professional demeanour. He seemed more relaxed now. More approachable. In fact, there was something almost louche about the way he sat in his chair, with his right leg crossed loosely over his left, little finger artfully cocked as he held out the glass to Billings. The butler’s nose and cheeks were red and glowing. Indeed, Billings could see from the drops of whisky spilled on the table nearby that this wasn’t his first glass of the evening. Billings reluctantly took the glass extended to him and sat down in the armchair opposite.

  “That's it,” said Wilcox jovially as he slapped the detective’s knee. “Let us have a good chat. We don't get many visitors around here, Detective Sergeant, so it's good to see a new face. Especially one as handsome as yours.”

  Billings smiled back politely, although he was a little taken aback by the sudden familiarity.

  “Tell me about Gracie,” he said.

  “Ah, yes, poor Gracie. What is it you wish to know about her?”

  “What was her life like before she entered the employ of Mrs Thornton?”

  “Well, it wasn’t a happy life, Mr Billings. Everyone knew about Gracie's plight, with her sick mother and their ailing farm. It was often spoken of in church. They were frequent recipients of the parish's alms, and the vicar had been very keen to help out the two women in whatever manner he could. In fact, it was he who suggested Mrs Thornton should take Gracie as a maid. After her mother died, he saw Gracie become lost and gloomy and thought that a new occupation and surroundings would be the right medicine for her. Of course, at first Mrs Thornton was a little reluctant to take on a woman of that age. Gracie was fifty-two already and... well, let's say she was one of God's simpler creatures. Mrs Thornton worried that the work she was to take on would be too much for her. But, as you know, the mistress is a charitable lady and jumped at the chance of offering an unfortunate a new lease of life.”

  “When did Gracie enter Mrs Thornton’s service?”

  “It was about five months ago. She was late on her first day and Mrs Thornton was very worried. She kept pacing up and down the drawing room and looking out of the window.

  “'How on earth is she to get here?’ she kept asking. ‘She's not walking all the way from Grosmont, I hope.'

  “'I believe she may have arranged for a cart to bring her, ma'am,' I said.

  “'Well, I certainly hope so. She'll be too tired to be any good to me if she walks.'

  “Mrs Thornton was anxious, of course. She doesn't like meeting new people. She has been holed up in this dark house ever since her husband died. She shuns all company and barely goes outside any more. It is tragic, really. She was such a smart, elegant and vivacious woman once.

  “At around four o'clock – four hours after she was due – we finally saw Gracie walk up the drive. Her dress was splattered with mud and her soaked bonnet sat askew on her head. The poor thing had walked. It's nearly five miles from here to Grosmont and she looked a fright.”

  “What was Gracie like?”

  “Well, of course we weren’t expecting much, but Mrs Thornton and I were both taken aback by the sheer simplicity of the poor woman.

  “'Oh, you poor thing. Look at you!’ cried the mistress upon seeing the unfortunate creature. 'Come and warm yourself by the fire.'

  “Gracie approached the fireplace hesitantly. She was shivering and trembling and barely dared look Mrs Thornton in the eye.

  “‘What on earth possessed you to walk all the way from Grosmont?’ the mistress asked her. ‘You should have let us know, I would have sent th
e carriage. Well, go on, stand by the fire or you'll catch your death. Now tell me, dear, how old are you? '

  “'Fifty-two, ma'am.'

  “'And what is your name?'

  “'Gracie.'

  “'Yes, I know that. But what is your family name?'

  “'Ma'am?'

  “'Your surname. Your second name.'

  “'Bickenbow.'

  “'What?'

  “'Bickenbow, ma'am.'

  “'Bickenbow? What is that? Scottish?'

  “'No, I'm from Grosmont.'

  “'Yes, but your family. Where are your people from? I have never heard the name Bickenbow.'

  “Her name, of course, is Brickenborough. Gracie Brickenborough. But that was much too long and complicated for her simple mind. Try as she might, she was simply incapable of pronouncing it.

  “'Brickenborough is not a hard name to pronounce,' Mrs Thornton told her. 'Say Brickenborough.'

  “'Bickenbow.'

  “'No, Brick-en-bo-rough.'

  “'Bickenbow.'

  “'Now, come, come. You must learn how to pronounce your own name, dear, or people will think you're stupid. Say Brickenborough.'

  “'Bickenbow.'

  “'Well, never mind. You're tired,’ Mrs Thornton said to her eventually. ‘You had better go and put some dry clothes on. You’re leaving watermarks all over the floor.’”

  Wilcox burst out laughing then – a long, hearty, belly-shaking laugh – and leaned forward in his chair to slap Billings on his knee again. The detective was growing weary of this constant sly touching and discreetly pushed his chair back to widen the distance between them.

  “As soon as Gracie left the room, Mrs Thornton dropped on to the chaise-longue and sighed,” the butler continued.

  “'Oh, dear, oh, dear,' she said, rubbing her tired eyes with her hands. ‘Where do they get these people from?'

  “'I'm sure once she has cleaned herself up and changed her clothes she'll look more presentable,' I said.

  “'Well, at least she has a home now. Who else would employ a creature like that? I think I shall go back to my room now, Wilcox,’ said the mistress as she got up and headed for the door. ‘See to it that I am not disturbed.'

  “The interview had tired the poor mistress and had given her another headache. She has been suffering from them for years. Terrible migraines. They keep her bed-bound for days. In fact, she's suffering from one now, that's why she was unable to meet you. I do believe it is this affliction of hers which has made her sympathise so with the poor. She understands their suffering.”

  Wilcox paused and looked Billings up and down.

  “Are you all right, sir? You look tired,” he observed.

  “I'm very well,” Billings responded, but he was lying. He wasn’t well at all. In fact he had found himself becoming increasingly unwell as the interview progressed. He was having difficulty concentrating. His thoughts kept turning to the morphine ampoules in his room and he repeatedly glanced at the clock, counting down the seconds until he could retire and inject the soothing poison into his veins. He was conscious of the beads of sweat which had started breaking out on his forehead, and kept turning his head away from the firelight in order to conceal them from the butler. The cramps in his stomach had also started again and he had to bite his lip and wring his hands together to hide the signs of his discomfort.

  “How did Gracie perform her work?” he asked, desperate to push on.

  “Well, she was entirely ineffectual, of course. She really was useless, and looked absolutely ridiculous in her maid’s uniform. No matter how often we tried hitching and unhitching her dress, the clothes just seemed to hang wrongly on her. Her cap was always askew on her head and her apron folded in. Of course, she was of peasant stock. There's never any elegance to be found in such people. They can be curvaceous and buxom when they're young, but after a certain age they all start looking like sacks of potatoes. Or bags of rattling bones. It would have been an embarrassment to have her wait on guests, had Mrs Thornton ever invited any. Cook took charge of Gracie in the beginning. You will be speaking to Martha too, I take it?”

  “I intend to speak to everyone.”

  “Well, I should warn you, Mr Billings, Martha can be a little difficult to deal with at times. She is loud and vulgar and impatient, and Gracie brought out the devil in her. I remember how she complained to me on that first day we sat down for servants’ dinner.

  “'The new maid is niver gonna work out!' she said as we waited for Gracie to bring in our food. 'Honestly, I don't know what to do with her, Mr Wilcox. She just stands there all day mumbling to hersen!'

  “'Mumbling?' I queried.

  “'Aye, mumbling. She does nowt but hold conversations with hersen all day long. And when she does talk, 'tis only to complain about one pain or another. Now she's got summat wrong with her finger. Bit too much off her nail, she says, and can't do the dishes.'

  “Gracie finally stumbled into our dining room, clumsily carrying a heavy bowl of stew.

  “'That's it, Gracie, take yer time!' Martha cried. 'It's not as if we haven't enough to do!'

  “It has always been the custom in this house that the maid serves and clears from the servants’ table while Cook puts her legs up. It is the only time of day she gets a chance to sit down. But Gracie kept complaining that the dish was too heavy for her and it was hurting her finger. And when she was told to serve the food, she complained that she couldn’t hold the ladle properly, also on account of her injured finger.

  “‘If tha mentions tha blessed finger one more time, I'll smack thee!’ Martha cried. ‘Now, hurry up with that stew!'

  “Poor Gracie did her best to serve out the food, but try as she might, she just couldn’t keep anything on the ladle.

  “'I'm gonna count to five,’ said Martha impatiently, ‘and if there's no food on my plate by the time I finish, I'll smash thee across the face with that ladle!'

  “Frustrated, Gracie eventually threw the ladle down on the table, rolled up her sleeves and scooped the stew out with her hands!”

  Wilcox burst out laughing again and reached out to slap Billings on his knee, but missed, which took him by surprise.

  “Martha was disgusted,” the butler continued, looking a little flustered. “'Tha filthy, stupid woman!' she cried. 'Don't be dipping tha infected finger in my food!' I declare, if it weren't for Master Roger entering the kitchen at that precise moment, the two women would have killed each other.

  “'Oh, you're eating,' he said tactfully, as he stood in the doorway watching the two servants fight. The women were taken aback, of course, and instantly calmed themselves and hung their heads in embarrassment.

  “'Master Roger, have you met the new maid yet?' I asked.

  “'Ah, yes. Gracie, isn't it?' He looked her up and down with a bemused expression on his face. It was clearly beyond him why his mother should employ a woman such as this, but he tried to hide his bemusement and remained polite and charming as usual. 'How do you do?' he added, with a nod and a smile.

  “Gracie blushed and giggled but didn't raise her head to return the greeting.

  “'Master Roger, do come and join us,' I said, and offered him my chair. 'I'll get you a plate.' But of course he didn’t want to impose himself on us during our free time.

  “'No, please, Wilcox. I'll be eating with Mother and Miss Whitfield tonight. I just wanted a word with you, but I'll come back later. I'll see you in your parlour in twenty minutes.'

  “'Certainly, Master Roger,' I told him.

  “I caught Gracie staring after him as he walked out of the kitchen. Master Roger, of course, was a remarkably handsome young man and Gracie was instantly struck with him. It was quite absurd the way she continued gaping at the door, long after he had gone. Such behaviour is unbecoming in any woman, but in one of her age...

  “'Close your mouth, Gracie!' I said after Master Roger had left us. 'Or you might swallow a fly.'”

  “What did Mr Thornton want to see you about?
” asked Billings.

  “Oh, it was about money. Master Roger was always in need of the readies. He wouldn't come into his inheritance until he was twenty-one and his mother never gave him a farthing in the meantime. Master Roger was a handsome, charming young man but he had many vices, the worst of which was gambling. He'd spend whole evenings in the tavern playing cards with the lads from the village. Of course he didn't have a penny to spend so I'm afraid I would occasionally lend him some of my hard-earned wages. Oh, it wasn't much. I do believe he turned to Miss Whitfield for most of his stake, but I'm afraid I did indulge him too. We saw him almost as our own son, Martha and I, you see. Well, I never did have a family of my own, and she is a lonely widow whose only son has moved to Scotland, and... well, it's no excuse, I know, but if only you had known Master Roger. He was a charming, charming young man.’

  It was nearly nine o'clock when the interview ended and Billings stumbled away, shivering and sweating and feeling nauseous. His room was dark, except for the orange light of the glowing coals. He headed straight for his bed and retrieved his wallet from the satchel stowed under it. With trembling hands he untied the ties, opened up the wallet and started laying out the contents on his bed. There was the syringe, a needle, a leather strap, a piece of cotton and three ampoules, one of which had already been broken open and resealed with a cork stopper. He picked up the needle and started screwing it on to the syringe. He'd become adroit at doing this, even with trembling hands. He'd had plenty of practice. Being a police detective meant he'd often miss his regular morphine hour and have to resort to taking his dosage after his symptoms had already become full-blown. Once he'd connected the needle to the syringe, he lit the candle by his bed and held the point in it, turning it around slowly like a bird on a spit.

  At this moment someone suddenly barged into his room, making him jump. It was the cook, Mrs Pringle, wearing a mob cap on her head and a long, dirty apron tied around her waist.

  “Here's tha grub!” she said as she slammed a bowl of gruel on to the table – spilling half the contents on it – then marched straight out again without another word.