by Issy Brooke
“Oh – please do not trouble yourself on my account,” Marianne said. Her fear increased tenfold.
Phoebe finally came to Marianne’s defence. She came to her mother’s side and took her arm. “Marianne is fully aware of her duties and don’t forget, she is responsible for her father and she takes that very seriously. What better duty than that of a daughter?”
Well, thought Marianne, I do prevent him from burning the place down on a weekly basis.
Mrs Davenport wrinkled her nose. She would prefer to forget about Russell Starr, errant chemist, altogether. She said, “Well, I shan’t detain you further, or you will have no time to change for lunch. I look forward to continuing our discussion then.”
Not likely. Marianne routinely changed her clothes for dinner, but she had no intention of even attending lunch with the others, never mind changing an extra time. “I am afraid I have other ... duties ... which will keep me in my rooms for the rest of the day. Good day, madam.”
She escaped at last, but she had only just got to her own room when Phoebe caught up with her. Phoebe bundled her quickly into the room and slammed the door shut behind her.
Marianne sighed. “Phoebe, oh please, just let me wash and eat and sleep. You have no idea of the night I’ve had. Honestly. I’ve not slept a wink.”
“Oh, the screaming! Yes, yes. It will be some child playing a prank and you know it. You will have found them out already, I am sure. Listen to what I am dealing with. It is true horror, I am telling you. True horror! Marianne, we must act before it is too late!”
Marianne rolled her eyes. “Phoebe, go away. I swear that I am about to collapse in a heap.”
“Come here. Turn around.” Phoebe began to help Marianne out of her clothes, which were still damp from the rain and massed in thick and unwieldly layers. Phoebe tugged and unhooked and unlaced as she talked. “I know this is all my fault, but I am sorry. No, actually, I shall blame Price. It is his fault. Not the rain. I mean, my mother. Do you want me to call for a bath for you?”
“No, thank you.”
“Good, for mother would have a fit if she knew. I am quite cross with Price, quite cross. I barely spoke to him this morning. But I don’t think he noticed as he was reading his newspaper. But still, I made my point, I am sure.”
“Why is she here, Phoebe?”
“Oh, it’s such an ugly tale. I can’t bear to tell you.”
“Be strong. Speak out.”
“All right, then.”
Marianne went behind a screen and found a clean shift and a comfortable housecoat to wear. She intended to nap for a few hours. Phoebe prattled on after seating herself on a couch by the window. “Ever since that business with the Prussians, Price has been worried about money. It’s such nonsense. He’s always had money, and I don’t understand why he is thinking it might all go away. It’s not like water, rushing down a drain.”
Marianne laughed. “You innocent buffoon. It is exactly like water! You just don’t understand because you’ve always had it. Money’s like the ocean to you. It’s endless.”
“Well, anyway, I don’t need to understand it. Except that he has been talking to other people, and other men’s wives, and apparently I am considered to be frivolous. As if that is a bad thing.”
“Yes, but you are. And yes, it is.”
“It’s not fair! He says I am to make better household decisions. I asked him to be specific. He said that he could not, as it was not his realm, and he did not care to be bothered by matters of the female sphere.”
“That is just his way of saying he doesn’t have a clue, either.”
“Oh, I know that,” Phoebe said. “So I am to budget, but I do not know how. He suggested I ask my mother to stay, and I thought that it would be all right. She has been positively dying to come and be all matronly over me for a long time. As soon as she arrived this morning, I knew that I had made a mistake in asking her. And I doubt that she will go home again until she has thoroughly overhauled the whole place. We are now a project for her. She must succeed and overcome. Victory will be hers.”
“Dry told me that the staff are worried.”
“Of course they are. She is like the grim reaper, come to harvest money instead of souls. She brings the economy of doom. She says there are too many staff here. Well, how should I manage with fewer? I have no idea. Everyone has their role. It is impossible. Marianne, I hate to bother you with more chores, but can you poison her?”
“Absolutely not. Phoebe, please, I need to sleep. I am about to fall down.”
Finally, Phoebe registered Marianne’s truly exhausted state. “Oh dear. I’ll have some cold food sent in. You get into bed, right now! And don’t worry about what my mother said. Although she has a point. If you got married, you’d stop her trying to match-make for you...”
Where had that threat come from? Marianne was alarmed. “I’ll poison the pair of you if either of you meddle in my love life. Do not let her.”
“You don’t have a love life to meddle in.” Phoebe got up and went to the door. “I’ll speak to cook. Meat, bread, fruit?” she asked as she opened it. “A little wine?”
Mrs Davenport stepped in, surprising them both.
Phoebe stifled a yelp and put her hand to her throat. Marianne stood behind her bed, clutching her housecoat around herself. “Um...?”
Mrs Davenport did not look at Marianne. She said to her daughter, “Meat, bread, fruit? And wine? Phoebe, this is one more example of your lack of awareness. I have already been to the kitchens, and I found the most shocking display of wanton disregard for propriety. The cook was feeding an errand boy! He had come to deliver some fish, and she was treating him like a member of the family. With your food that your husband has paid for. This must stop. I will deal with this issue myself. You will have a queue of unfortunates at your door at all hours if this does not stop. As for the lack of respect your cook shows...”
“Mother...”
“Come along. I shall show you how this must be handled.” Mrs Davenport whirled around and hauled Phoebe out with her.
Marianne sank onto her bed, and pulled a blanket over herself. She was too tired to fret about it all at the moment, and she let herself swim into sleep.
Four
Marianne was awoken by the sounds of banging and shouting. She lay in her bed, listening, wondering if the staff had staged a rebellion and were even now chasing Mrs Davenport from the house. If so, she ought to jump up and join them in their endeavour. She had always fancied wielding a pitchfork as part of a mob.
As her head cleared, she focused more clearly on the sound of her father’s voice, and the answering shouts of Mrs Olive Crouch, his nurse.
Mrs Crouch could handle herself. She’d terrified whole regiments of men in the Crimea, if her tales were to be believed. Marianne rolled out of bed and did not hurry in washing and dressing. It was mid-afternoon, and her mouth was dry, and her eyes scratched and itched. No food had been delivered; Phoebe’s mother must have vetoed it. She wondered how long the intolerable woman was going to stay.
Poison could perhaps be an option. Not to kill, but perhaps to make her a little ill? Ill enough to want to go home?
Marianne felt guilty but it didn’t stop the thought.
Her room was one of a small suite that had been given over to her and her father. She wandered out into the corridor and followed the noise, tracking it to her father’s day room. She listened at the door.
He was in a rage about the sun. That made as much sense as it ever did. Last week, he had hallucinated beetles all over his skin and he had had to be put into a deep sleep before he scratched his own flesh off.
Mrs Crouch was having none of his raving about the light. “Take your medication and be done with it. I shall draw the curtains then, sir, and not before. Now, drink this!”
Russell spoke thickly, and she knew that the mercury doses he was taking were making him drool and spit up more saliva than should have been humanly possible. He ranted back at her ab
out his eyes, his mouth, his skin, his youth, his studies, his enemies in the Royal Society, the French, and the current government. Marianne started to open the door, caught sight of Mrs Crouch levering the pills into his mouth as he foamed and spat, and thought better of it. She retreated before she could be seen.
Weariness washed over her. She leaned against the wall and sighed.
No. She would not mope. Moping had never achieved a thing. She pushed herself upright and forced herself to go out for a walk. The rain had stopped, and she needed clear air for a clear head.
The arrival of Ann Davenport was a signal to Marianne that she needed to leave this house, more than ever. Her father’s illness complicated matters, but that was a burden she had to bear. As for the failure at Rosedene, she was smarting about that. But really, with the useless lump of a constable by her side, she had been set up to fail! Yes, she had heard the strange noises and yes, they did indeed sound like screams. But that was all she could declare about it.
She knew the police had searched the house thoroughly. She herself had done so, too; twice.
But it was not enough. She could not leave it at that. Not only for her own professional pride, and the irksome nature of an unanswered question but – and here, she chastised herself again for being so crass – but she needed the money.
Only money could release her from living under her cousin’s roof.
She had made plans. She had charts showing projected income and rent and possible expenditure and cheap but respectable places she might choose to live. She had goals – not dreams.
She darted back inside to fetch her outdoor walking clothes, and change into sturdy boots. She had to meet with Inspector Gladstone soon, and she had some things to say to the man.
UNLIKE ROSEDENE, WOODFURLONG was handily placed for the railway and she was able to reach the middle of London easily within half an hour. Inspector Gladstone listened, most seriously, to her reflections and demands.
He agreed to everything she asked, and sent a message to Mrs Newman at Rosedene. The day was slipping away, and Marianne did not have time to wait for a reply. She went back to Woodfurlong, dozing on the train, pleaded a headache, and took to her rooms, knowing that Mrs Davenport would spend the evening telling Price and Phoebe that she’d brought it on herself. Reading books, and thinking, was doing Marianne no good at all. Her brain was overheating in a most unfeminine way, no doubt.
She slept well, regardless.
A message was brought to Marianne the following day. She read it, punched the air because nobody was looking, and stifled her unseemly shout of glee, because people would always be listening. She avoided Mrs Davenport, who spent the whole day closeted with Phoebe and the household accounts. Even the staff slipped around with silent, long faces, each one worried for their positions.
It was true that they kept an extravagantly large household at Woodfurlong. No one else that they knew had quite so many staff. Price was rich – he had inherited wealth and he made it, too. But was he rich enough? Did they really need Mr Dry, who was Price’s valet and Mr Barrington, the house steward? Two male “indoor” servants, really? Plus the cook and the seething coterie of maids, the housekeeper and the children’s nurse, Russell’s nurse, Phoebe’s lady’s maid and the various outdoor staff – gardeners, coachman, stable boy? The Claverdons were well-to-do but they were certainly not the very upper classes. They had no title and no ancient pockets of land dotted around.
Although it had to be said that Mrs Davenport’s objections were not strictly to do with money, but rather with how such extravagance looked to others. People, she said, would judge them, and such ostentatious displays of wealth were simply unseemly.
It would not do.
Marianne sneaked into the kitchens just after lunch and found Mrs Cogwell the cook close to tears. “I should love to find you some food, my dear,” she said in a low voice. “But it is all put away – put away! Locked up, as if I am a common thief. I have never stolen a thing in my life, and you know it.”
“I don’t need sugar or tea,” Marianne told her. “Just a little bread, perhaps? Some cheese?”
Mrs Cogwell shook her head and her jowls wobbled. “Everything is to be accounted for, now. The menus are planned out, just as I have always done, but now mistress is to count out what is to be used, and no more! Not one ounce more! She vows she will even examine what is thrown away. Miss, might you have a word with her?”
“I do not think my word would be heard. But don’t worry. She cannot stay here for ever.”
“She said that she will stay until her work here is done. And begging pardon, miss, but you are to be part of that work, so I hear.”
“I see,” Marianne said grimly. “Do not fret about me. I will get some food in town.”
“I didn’t mean food, miss. I mean she has in mind to ...”
Marianne knew what she meant. This marriage nonsense again. She stamped out into the gathering chill of the autumn afternoon.
Five
She loved London, at any time of the day or night. It hummed with life. She was poor enough to be able to pass unnoticed through many of the streets, during the daytime at least. Phoebe could never walk alone here, though the pair of them together could visit the better sorts of shops and even the new tea rooms springing up to cater for women with money and time, and nothing better to do with either of those things.
At the turn of the day, as the light faded, the atmosphere changed. Marianne took more care about where she went, and when. She was not painted enough to pass as a jade, nor shabby enough to be completely ignored as the sun went down and the nightlife came out. But by the time that danger was emerging, she was already once more at Rosedene, and this time she was alone. Constable Bolton had been of no use. She was going to do this alone.
Mrs Newman herself answered the door and let her into the cold, dark hall. “Miss Starr, how delightful to see you again. I only wish it were under more favourable circumstances.”
“I do understand. I was troubled by what I heard last time, and I am very grateful that you have allowed me back to conduct a more thorough search.” She was convinced that she had missed something, somehow.
“And this time, you have brought supplies! Scientific instruments, no doubt?”
“Indeed.” Marianne’s arm was aching from carrying the heavy bag. She had a blanket with her, but more importantly, she had various tools and powders too. She was determined to track down the source of the noise as soon as it began. “I wonder if I might beg your indulgence in one more matter. It is somewhat sensitive.”
“Please, do not hesitate. I, like you, am keen to get to the bottom of things.”
“It is about the boy, Tobias.”
“Yes?”
“The only occupants here are yourself, the housekeeper Mrs Peck, Miss Dorothea Newman, and the boy, is that correct? No maids?”
“A girl comes in daily, but you are right. There are just us four, rattling around. Well, my dear aunt does not rattle, but you know what I mean.”
“Indeed. How long has Tobias been here?”
“Just over a year.”
“That long! What of his future? You mentioned that you thought he might return to school but if he has not done so in a year, then...”
“I fear his future is sad and utterly without prospect, in truth. I do not know what my aunt might plan for him. He cannot return to school simply because there is no money for that, and my heart breaks for him. It is an indelicate subject. Pardon me, but I do not like to speak of it.”
“And so what of his own plans?”
“I do not know. What could he do, anyway? When you were here before, he was not sullen and silent because of your presence. He is always like that. He is a most unpersonable boy.”
“But he has lost his parents and suffered the trauma of an unspeakable accident.”
“It was many months ago. He is prone to lingering in grief. Men must pull themselves together and carry on. I wish he had more of th
e firm Newman character, and then a position might yet be found for him, but it is not to be. Do you think...?”
Marianne nodded. “Yes, my suspicions lie with him. Has he spent any time away, while you have been here?”
“No. If I could have sent him away, I would have done so. For his own good, of course. Alas...”
“I am going to ask if he might be locked into his room tonight,” Marianne said. “I hate to suggest it, but it is one way to perhaps rule him out.”
Mrs Newman looked doubtful, but she nodded. “I see. Yes. I shall not tell him. I shall simply do it. I have never caught him prowling at night, so I daresay he won’t even notice.”
Marianne was uncomfortable with it, but she thanked Mrs Newman, and they went up to the rooms on the first floor. Mrs Newman brought her some refreshments, and left her alone.
Once again, Marianne felt the strange awkwardness of being in the next room to a confined invalid to whom she had not been properly introduced. She could hear a light snoring. She moved as quietly as she could, laying out the implements that she had brought with her.
There had to be human agency behind the noise. That much was a given. So, who was doing it? First she had to rule out every person who officially lived in the house. Mrs Newman herself had raised the issue with the police, but did that make her innocent? Marianne was not prepared to dismiss her so lightly but she did not want to make Mrs Newman aware of her suspicions. Marianne would have to watch her, and Mrs Peck, also, who slept in a tiny room by the kitchen. If Tobias was safely locked into his room, that would help.
And then there was Dorothea Newman, the old lady herself, the owner of the house. Everyone else was here with her permission, really. Mrs Newman must have had her agreement to involve the police.
When Marianne had heard the noise, it had very clearly not been coming from the curtained bed. But she had in mind a system of tubes, and pipes, and rubber, and all manner of ways to make a sound be transmitted from one area to another. Quite why anyone should do such a thing was another matter. And that was why Marianne suspected Tobias most of all. To a lonely boy, suffering trauma, trapped in a house where he wasn’t really welcome, with an uncertain future, anything might count as entertainment.